


Baker Street: Part II

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [12]
Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221A Baker Street, 221B Baker Street, Army, Assassination, Attempted Murder, Bedfordshire, Berkshire, Bigotry & Prejudice, Birds, Boats and Ships, Bribery, Caring, Cheating, Cornwall, Costumes, Countdown, Cuddling & Snuggling, Curses, Daggers, Disguise, Doctors & Physicians, England (Country), Escape, F/M, False Accusations, Fan-fiction, Framing Story, Friendship, Furniture, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Harnesses, Huntingdonshire, Inheritance, Isle of Man, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Journalism, Justice, London, Love, M/M, Male Prostitution, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, Mistakes, Monmouthshire, Murder, Nobility, Organized Crime, Photography, Plans, Police, Politics, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Regret, Religion, Revenge, Romance, Royalty, Sanctuary, Scarves, Serial Killers, Servants, Sleep Sex, Sleeping Together, Slow Burn, Theft, Trains, Trauma, Unfaithfulness, Unhappy marriage, Victorian, Wales, Warwickshire, Westmorland, Worcestershire, clubs, coming home, essex, herbs & spices, playing cards, synergy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 79,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1887. Yet more cases as the duo settle into Baker Street. As well as the famous 'Sophy Anderson' case (the politician, the light-house and the trained cormorant) there is another murderous sibling, another serial killer, the scandal at the Nonpareil Club, a not-stolen dagger, a disappearing dancer, a body in a wardrobe, an innocent murderer, the case Holmes solved by (not) winding a dead man's watch, a man killed while wearing the wrong scarf, the largest item Holmes was ever asked to find. Holmes is not at all jealous of Watson's friendship with the mysterious Doctor Nonus Hugh, while the doctor suffers more embarrassment over another incriminating photograph. Then a curious countdown is followed by trouble once more rearing its ugly head, and for Watson a second flight abroad looms – except that this time, he will not go alone.Oh yes. And Sherlock ends up on John's bed.
Relationships: Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HopefulOne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopefulOne/gifts), [KezialovesShandJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KezialovesShandJohn/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1887 **

**Interlude: Spread A Little Happiness**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_The 'inimitable' authoress ensures her books are experienced by many_

 **Case 113: The Adventure Of The Greek Interpreter**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_More politicking as someone tries to start a war_

 **Case 114: The Wrecking Of The 'Sophy Anderson'**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The politician, the light-house, the trained cormorant – and justice_

 **Case 115: Lord Backwater's Downfall**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Watson is yet again embarrassed by a photograph - or two!_

 **Interlude: Worth It**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes notices some changes in his friend_

 **Case 116: The Sign Of The Four**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Another serial killer, but the motive is the key_

 **Case 117: The Adventure Of The King Stone**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Murder in south Warwickshire – of a man wearing the wrong scarf_

 **Case 118: The Adventure Of The Uffa Poniard**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Someone has stolen an ancient weapon – and the thief is an odd one_

 **Case 119: The Adventure Of The Ninth Doctor**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes is not at all jealous of a handsome friend of Watson's_

 **Case 120: Dancing In The Dark**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A nobleman wants the detective to find him a beautiful dancer_

 **Interlude: In Harness**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer wonders how he always ends up like this (hint: Benji)_

 **Case 121: The Adventure Of The Dead Man's Watch**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The victim of an assassination manages to name his murderer_

 **Case 122: The Adventure Of The Nonpareil Knave**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Holmes exposes a card-sharp and tells a lie_

 **Case 123: The Adventure Of The Innocent Murderer**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Mr. Albert Stevens is definitely a killer – but should he hang?_

 **Case 124: Silver Blaze**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The largest thing Holmes ever had to find – a steam locomotive!_

 **Case 125: The Corpse Now Arriving At 221A, Baker Street**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Two new neighbours at 221A find a body in their wardrobe_

 **Case 126: The Adventure Of The Five Orange Pips**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_From Monmouthshire to Man, a gentleman's secrets are exposed_

 **Interlude: Then Came Trouble**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The detective's hopes for more happy years are about to be upset_

 **Interlude: Fight And Flight**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Watson flees the country – but this time he leaves with Holmes_

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	2. Interlude: Spread A Little Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Some people incite strong emotions in those around them – fear, terror, panic....

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

It was so unfortunate that dear Sherlock had to rush off to Ireland just as I had asked him to come over and hear 'Knight Court', my latest brilliant masterpiece about what the Knights of the Round Table really got up to on - _and under!_ \- said table. However he very generously offered to visit my dear late mother's grave in Mallow and take a memento for me there, and also suggested that I read the story to Randall for whom he was crossing the Irish Sea. I am not sure quite why my fourth son pulled that face when I explained in glorious detail just why Sir Lancelot had such a lot of lance, but there you go.

I am also getting concerned about Mycroft, whose marriage to Rachael seems to be in trouble again. I had thought after her having two sons things might improve Matters (even if I have Doubts about the elder of those boys), but my eldest son seems to spend most of his time complaining about my youngest and his doctor friend. Not of course in my Presence or there will be no more children for him to worry about, as it would not be just his allowance that would be cut off!

I happened to meet dear Lucifer in the park the other day where he was walking with his friend Mr. Jackson-Giles, who was an even more handsome and well-endowed black Adonis than I had thought from what I had learned of him from my detective agency. It was a very good thing that he was wearing such tight trousers as it gave me yet another wonderful idea for a story. I was I admit a little surprised when I asked Lucifer about the gentleman and he said that he is married, but apparently his Black Beauty (in those trousers, the horse analogy is very visibly accurate!) has a large and growing family including a wife who welcomes the extra money her husband can obtain That Way. Dear Lucifer, he was so pleased when I told him about the story that he had inspired in me, it brought tears to his eyes! His friend looked somewhat concerned for some reason but he had to rush off to get to one of the two jobs that he does, so that was probably why. At least he was as nice to look at going as coming; I could happily bounce a penny off that backside!

I shall however have to finish my current 'Friends' story first, the one concerning six people who meet together at a coffee-house with one of them secretly in love with another. Torver says that such an idea will never work but then neither does he; I am sure that the bank pays him to stay home rather than come in and upset their customers. And since Doctor Greenwood has sadly confirmed that Eddie's deafness would only be exacerbated by too much listening especially to my stirring stories, the boy can listen to it when it is done.

Proof, as was definitely needed, that Torver _is_ good for something!

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	3. Case 113: The Adventure Of The Greek Interpreter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Holmes works to prevent a diplomatic incident, while Watson once again frets that his friend is keeping something from him. Unfortunately he is right.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I would not have traded my friendship with Holmes for the whole world. Despite his many quirks – the fake pipe, the pistol-shooting indoors, the violin-playing, the complete inability to function as a human being before his first coffee of the morning, the smirking, the kicked puppy look that made me do whatever he wanted, the sort of brothers who put the frat into fratricide, the theft of my bacon every breakfast, the mind-reading thing, the simpering females (plus annoying Cornish fishermen and Irish doctors), the..... 

_Why was he my friend again?_

All right, he was my true friend. After some eight years of us living together all told, it was somehow wonderfully reassuring to see his tall form stagger to the breakfast table every morning as if his life depended on reaching the coffee, and with the sort of scowl that could have stripped paint. I was not the best morning person around but he was truly horrendous! If I ever wanted to end it all I had only to insert myself between Holmes and caffeine first thing!

One of the most definitive parts of Holmes's character was his insistence on what he called 'personal space' – I shall not embarrass the married high society lady who had tried to persuade him to take her case by draping herself over him, save to say that I had not known that he could run that fast! - which was why I had been so surprised on the two previous occasions on which he had embraced me. This case included the third time that I was allowed inside that invisible barrier that surrounded him and as with the first two it was caused by stress.

Oh yes. And the lying thing. Sort of.

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Looking at my life right now I could truly say that I was a happy man. So when I came out of my room to find the pestilential Mr. Randall Holmes sat in Holmes's fireside chair I scowled (all right, and also wondered if there were any bullets in my gun just then). Holmes had, far too generously in my opinion, re-admitted his brother to his good graces after the latter had written a fulsome letter of apology (fulsome and insincere; Holmes had told me later that their terrifying mother had made him do it and that a revolver may or may not have been involved). The advent of the lounge-lizard clearly meant that it was going to be One Of Those Days. I sighed, walked past him and started to pour a coffee.

“Chin up doctor!” he said reprovingly. “I am here on important business. We need Sher to Save The Nation!”

“Randall!”

I tried (but failed miserably) to hide a smile when the lounge-lizard jumped violently, realizing too late that the great detective had emerged from his lair and was standing just inches away from him. Even when he looked like death barely warmed over as in most (all) mornings, he could still move with all the stealth of a sniper. 

“If you have touched my coffee, the only thing that will need investigating will be your untimely and unmourned demise!” Holmes snarled, pushing his brother out of the way to reach the coffee that I had ready for him, then glaring at our unwelcome visitor until he huffed and crossed to the other seat. I hurriedly placed the sugar-bowl next to my friend's cup and he smiled his thanks before dumping four cubes into his cup. His brother opened his mouth to comment on it but Holmes shot him a look that made even me tremble, and our unwelcome visitor's jaw wisely snapped shut. A pity really as my generous nature meant that I would have been quite prepared to clean up any blood, and might even go out to fetch a doctor for him. 

Once I had finished getting ready, of course. And written that letter that I had to get done by next week. And gone out to post it.

“I swear, you are getting as bad as Guilford”, our unwelcome visitor said with a sigh. 

“Cof-fee!” Holmes growled. He downed most of his steaming-hot beverage in one mouthful and sighed happily as I placed a second one ready for him. Never mind my wondering who his terrible mother might have him marry; she only had to make sure that they were holding a full carafe and he would be up the aisle with them in an instant!

“Now that you have had your caffeine and returned to humanity”, his brother said archly, “how about helping me with this small matter of Saving The Nation?”

He glanced pointedly at me as he spoke and I bridled.

“You know the deal, Randall”, Holmes said coldly. “No Watson, no help. If this case is at all sensitive he will keep the records but will not publish anything. Besides I check everything that he publishes beforehand.”

“Honestly, it is almost as if you two are married!” the elder Holmes groused. I smiled at the thought.

“We are not”, Holmes said archly. “I doubt that Watson would have me as I am not exactly at my best in the mornings” (I somehow suppressed a cough at that point but still earned a sharp look, which was just unfair!). “Although I suppose that I might look good in a white dress, especially one with padded...”

“Sher!”

Another murderous look.

“...lock!” the pest added, clearly reluctantly. I allowed myself a smirk.

Although Holmes often (always) looked this bad of a morning, this particular one he had good cause. He had recently been involved in an unpleasant case for our friend Gregson, which had only lasted as long as it had done because it had turned out that the criminal had had a relative in the policeman's station who had kept 'tipping him the wink' every time the police had tried to close on him. Holmes had ferreted out the fellow and had solved the case but I knew that finding a 'bent copper' had dispirited both him and our cake-loving friend who had actually come round to Baker Street on a non-baking day! Fortunately both he and LeStrade had arrived as expected on the next one and I think that even Mrs. Hudson was allowed to smile about that!

She had a pistol. _Of course she was allowed!_

“All right”, our unpleasant visitor muttered, sighing in a put-upon manner.

“You may have my chair”, I said trying to extend a peace offering. “I find it easier to take notes at the table.”

Our unwelcome visitor poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. Holmes was already on his third, still with a scowl that could have removed paint.

“As I am sure you remember”, the nuisance said, “six years ago there was a very unpleasant war† between the Russians and our on-off friends the Ottomans, which in line with all expectations the Russians won hands down. The ensuing peace treaty was however so one-sided that the whole Continent came out against it and we were able to get it rewritten. One of the eventual consequences was that much of Thessaly was ceded by the Ottomans to Greece.”

I remembered that war and my fellow Londoners' noisy displeasure at the original treaty. It had been the year of the Rhododendron Lane Affair concerning the club-footed Mr. Ricoletti and his abominable wife.

“British relations in that part of the world are problematic, to say the least”, our unwelcome visitor sighed. “The government backs the Ottomans of course, as a bulwark against the Russian Bear but public opinion is on the side of the Greeks, David against Goliath. It was mostly British strength which won the Greeks their freedom sixty years back, after all. However although the treaty from that last war was implemented some six years ago there are still problems. The main one comes from lack of definition; the borders in and around Thessaly have changed over the centuries and naturally each side picks the ones that suit them. We had thought to have had the matter resolved last year but now it is threatening to blow up again.”

“Why?” Holmes asked. I had had the foresight to have a fourth cup of coffee waiting for him as he had by now finished his third and he smiled at me as he took it. 

“It is the Greeks who are being difficult”, Mr. Randall Holmes said, rolling his eyes as I acted the maid. “The lands that they were given provide them with about a quarter of the coast around the Bay Of Thessalonica at the top of which sits the city of that name. The Greeks want it, but rather than try to swing world opinion to their side over such a great prize they are doing it more subtly, which makes a change for them. There is an islet barely fifty yards across that they call Poseidon's Rock. It sits in the centre of the bay's entrance but because it is fractionally closer to Greek rather than Ottoman territory, the Greeks say that it should have been handed over to them.”

“Surely a tiny rock will not make a difference?” I objected.

“Randall's _very_ poorly-expressed point is one of public perception”, Holmes explained, ignoring his brother's huff. “For both sides, especially after such a major concession as a whole province, even 'a tiny rock' would be seen as a prelude to a further transfer of land. Especially as Thessalonica lies just south of the province of Macedonia, home to the renowned Alexander the Great. That resonates with many Greeks and there is already an independence movement there.”

Our visitor nodded.

“If a major war does start in Europe as the government fears, it will almost certainly be triggered by some quarrel that starts in the Balkans”, he said. “Ottoman rule of the area is bad enough but letting all those potential nation states start hammering away at each other over who owns what is a recipe for disaster, especially with the Serbs further north so close to the Russians culturally speaking. Belgrade went after the Bulgarians just after they won their independence two years ago but got nowhere, so they may seek to push south into Macedonia instead. That is the last thing we need and we have told the press that the Turks and Greeks are meeting soon, implying that they may agree to go somewhere like Cyprus or Italy. In truth representatives of both sides are coming to London.”

“Why?” I asked.

“At the last meeting we nearly had a whole new war courtesy of one of the Ottoman translators mishearing one single word and changing the meaning of a sentence”, he said. “The Greeks, being Greeks, assumed or wanted to assume that it was deliberate; it may or may not have been. The sole piece of good news is that this time we managed to find someone both sides can agree on to act as an interpreter. Mr. James Douglas is only twenty-three but he has already produced the definitive work on the history of the region and it was strictly impartial. He personally oversaw the translations into both Greek and Arabic, two of the eight languages that he is fluent in, and refused to sign either off until he was satisfied. I read somewhere that liking his book was about the only time the Greeks and Turks have agreed on anything in the past century!”

Considering the number of cases that my friend undertook, some repetition of names was inevitable. The Douglases in this story were no relation to Mr. Alan Douglas, the cousin of the Marquis of Queensberry and lover of Holmes's half-brother and my half-cousin Mr. Teledamus Newton. I might have thought that the reason for the very slight shift that I detected in my friend's attitude, but somehow I felt that there was more to it than that.

“I read that book”, I said, putting aside my concerns at least while the nuisance was still here. “I really admired the single-mindedness of the author. It was clear throughout that he did not even think of taking sides or being at all judgemental.”

Mr. Randall Holmes nodded.

“I wish the same could be said for his family”, he said with a heavy sigh. “His mother Janet is from Tarabulus‡ and fiercely pro-Turk while his brother Jason is English born and bred but fiercely pro-Greek. Though from what I have read about our fellow I doubt that he even notices either of them. They say that he is totally wrapped up in his work, and would likely forget to eat or go home unless someone chanced to remind him so to do.”

“So what do you need Holmes for in all this?” I asked. 

“Two nights ago, Mr. James Douglas visited a Turkish baths in Oxford”, the nuisance said. “He was attacked on leaving the premises. His face was cut up but fortunately a policeman heard what was afoot and the assailants fled. I only learned of it today and came straight here from Oxford once I had checked up on him. He is in a bad way but he insists he can still attend the meeting next week even if he has to use crutches.”

“Admirable”, I said.

“You are afraid that there will be a further attempt on his life?” Holmes asked. His brother shook his head.

“Apparently his brother is being and I quote 'a complete mother-hen'”, he grinned. “Mr. James Douglas told me that the only reason he was not there when I called was because he had sent him out to get a bar of chocolate from a shop several streets away, just to get some peace and quiet! I would like for you to see him beforehand and then again at the meeting.”

Holmes did that head-tilt thing he did sometimes, analysing his brother as if he were some strange species (which he was).

“Why?” he asked. Mr. Randall Holmes frowned.

“I just have a feeling”, he said. “Something is not right, but I cannot put my finger on it.”

“In your line of business hunches can be the difference between war and peace”, Holmes said (I remembered that he had said much the same about the criminal Kuznetsov family and managed not to smile at the rather too accurate comparison, although I got the inevitable sharp look from someone nearby). “When is this gentleman coming to London?”

“There's an informal dinner at my house for Mr. Douglas and both sides the day before the actual meeting. Thursday at six.”

 _“We_ shall attend”, Holmes said. I may just have felt a very slight feeling of satisfaction when his brother visibly flinched at the use of the plural.

All right, perhaps it was not _that_ slight. Possibly I may have had a very marginal borderline pleased expression that an uncharitable person may have just possibly misinterpreted as a smirk. Just possibly.

Holmes looked at me. All right, I was King Smirkitty Smirkus, ruler of Smirk City in Smirkopolis and with a First-Class Degree In Smirkingly Smirking! Besides, 'someone' could bloody well talk!

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Satisfaction at the lounge-lizard's annoyance apart, I still felt that there had been something very slightly off about Holmes's response to the name of Mr. James Douglas. Once the pest was safely gone I took a deep breath and challenged him on it.

“While you were in Egypt”, he said, “I came across another Scottish seer. He told me that, bizarrely, I would end up saving the life of a Mr. James Douglas.”

“You save a lot of people from a lot of things”, I pointed out.”

“Twice!”

That did surprise me. I wondered just who this second seer was, but Holmes said that he had to go out and post a letter so I took that to indicate that he did not wish for the conversation to continue. yet I still felt that there was something more to this than he had said. Perhaps I was getting psychic too?

'Someone' shaking his head as he headed out of the door was just _annoying!_

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I was surprised when, the day before we were due to attend the pre-meeting dinner, I arrived home to find Holmes not there. Though his cases often took him away from Baker Street during the day it was a rare thing that I beat him home. He came in late and was greatly appreciative of Mrs. Hudson having kept a dinner for him.

“The woman is a saint!” he muttered, all but inhaling the sausages and bacon as was his wont. I smiled at his eagerness and waited to see if there would be any elucidation as to his whereabouts that day. Once he had finished eating he sighed happily.

“A full stomach, a roaring fire, a good whisky and a good friend”, he said, pouring himself said drink before easing slowly into his chair. “Life is I suppose acceptable at times.”

“You went out today?” I said questioningly. I had noted that he still looked tired from his recent case with Gregson, and I was worried for him.

“I went to Oxford”, he said.

“To see Mr. James Douglas?” I asked.

“In a way.”

He was being annoying. _Again!_

“Either you saw him or you did not see him”, I said a little testily. I myself had had a long, hard day full of patients who had been more trying than usual (a high bar), so was not up for guessing games.

“I did indeed see Mr. James Douglas”, he clarified. “I also had a highly productive meeting with one Mr. Albert Greyland.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Until recently he was Mr. Jason Douglas's valet”, Holmes explained. “He retired last year to a small cottage in the village of Yarnton, just north of the city.”

“Why did you need to see him?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because he had something important that forms part of this case”, Holmes said mysteriously. “Very fortunately for him, otherwise we would be looking at a case of murder.”

“Murder?” I exclaimed in horror.

“Oh, and I spoke to Randall. We are to arrive for dinner at half-past five.”

“Why so early?” I asked.

“To prevent a war”, he said picking up his book which I realized was that of Mr. James Douglas himself. 

I sighed and returned to my writings.

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Despite my hard day I found it difficult to get to sleep that night. Holmes had been called out just after we had finished talking by a telegram from his father, which had worried me as I felt that my friend really needed his sleep just now. Plus I still had that nagging feeling that despite what he had told me, something was not quite right with him. 

My friend did not come back until after I myself went to bed. I found it difficult to get to sleep and when I finally did I started to have a most strange dream. It was a warm sunny day and I was at a gate to a house set at least a hundred yards away. I had never seen it before but I was sure that that was Holmes sitting on the porch as a group of strange men rode up to him. The skies seemed almost preternaturally blue and there was a cool breeze that....

The house suddenly exploded into smithereens, scattering debris so far that it rained down close to me even though I was at least a hundred yards away. I tried to run towards the wreckage but someone behind me pulled me back. I let out a cry of agony..... 

…. and awoke realizing just where I was. My own bed, in the safety of Baker Street. With Holmes was sat on said bed looking at me anxiously.

“You were having a nightmare, Watson”, he said. “Just a bad dream.”

I knew then that I could not lose Holmes. I needed him in my life. Yes we were both men, but I needed my..... I needed my friend. 

“You were gone!” I blurted out. “Dead!”

“It was just a bad dream”, he repeated. “I am here.”

I realized that I was breathing far too rapidly and tried to regain control of myself. He looked at me anxiously then to my surprise lay down on the bed next to me.

“Let us just sit here together”, he said calmly, “and remember that we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

“'The Tempest'”, I said, smiling despite an unaccountable wetness in my eyes. “Bookworm!”

It was good to feel his physical presence next to me even though we were both in pyjamas and he was on top of the blankets while I was underneath them. I sighed and tried to marshal my thoughts as sleep began to reclaim me.

“It was a weird house”, I said sleepily. “All wood, like some sort of colonial place. And it was so warm.....”

My last thought was that he seemed a little tense beside me but tiredness overcame me in seconds, and I slept safely in the arms of Morpheus.

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I had the next day off work which was just as well as I felt exhausted by the previous night. God bless Holmes as he realized my need for his physical presence, even if he did not endanger my manliness by any physical contact. When he did have to go out to the post-office he asked me to go with him, and back at the house he remained constantly close. I did not deserve such devotion but I silently determined to strive to be worthy of it.

We arrived punctually at Mr. Randall Holmes's house – Mayfair, of course, and about as pretentious as its unpleasant owner - although it was a close-run thing. My day off had been curtailed by a late patient whom the surgery had telegraphed me to go and visit at her home in Chelsea, and I had had to race home and get ready in less than five minutes. As I had changed I had mused on the strange fact that I almost missed the old, scruffy Holmes as against the much tidier and better groomed model of today. Although it seemed that the females of London (along with certain annoying Cornish fishermen and irksome Irish doctors who I definitely enjoyed being in Cornwall and Ireland respectively) would simper at him either way. Sigh.

A smartly-attired footman opened the door to us and showed us immediately into the main room where Mr. Randall Holmes was standing by the fire. Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow at his brother.

“He is here”, our host said.

Barely a few minutes later a footman announced Mr. James Douglas. I had seen his photograph (Holmes had requested his brother to send one over) and my first impression was that the camera did sometimes lie. He was taller than I had imagined and had a sinister appearance which was not helped by the dark glasses and half of his face still being bandaged up after the attack. He used a stout stick to walk with as he entered.

“Mr. Douglas”, the lounge-lizard beamed. “Thank you so much for coming. Please take a seat. I shall have drinks served straight away.

The fellow nodded and sat down carefully in one of the fireside seats. 

“The doctor said that I no longer need the crutches”, he said placing his walking-stick beside his chair. “Just this.”

“That is good”, I smiled.

I saw the brothers exchange a meaningful look. Something was going on here.

“I am sorry that I am not yet back to full health, gentlemen”, our visitor said, “but I am well enough to be able to fulfil the functions requested of me. If they still want me of course.”

“We are grateful for that”, Mr. Randall Holmes said, sipping something bright green and foul-looking that I quietly hoped was as toxic as it looked. “We had thought that we might have to employ your brother instead.”

Mr. Douglas visibly stiffened.

“As I am sure you are well aware, Mr. Holmes”, he said quietly, “my brother and I do _not_ get on. He has his political views and I have mine; we do not discuss them with each other. Are your other guests here yet?”

“I asked them to arrive at six”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “There was someone whom we wished you to meet first.”

A footman knocked at the door and was admitted. The same ginger-haired one as earlier, I noted. 

“Your other guest is here, sir”, he intoned gravely.

“Please show him in, Bartlett”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. 

The footman stepped back and the man behind him walked into the room. I stared in shock. This was the image of the fellow in the photograph, but then who....?

A noise echoed from the fireside chair. Our first guest shot to his feet without grasping his stick, drew out a revolver and fired straight at our new visitor. He could not miss.

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I blinked. The gun clicked and.... nothing. The new man – indisputably the real Mr. James Douglas, I realized – continued to stand there with a slight smile forming on his face. 

Our first guest fired again. And again. And again.

Still nothing. Mr. Randall Holmes came across and quietly removed the revolver from his grasp.

“I may have neglected to mention, Mr. _Jason_ Douglas”, he said silkily, “that Mr. Bartlett here who took your coat when you came in is in fact one of our city's most skilled pickpockets. He was able to extract your gun from your jacket pocket and replace it with a similar one - save for the fact that it has no bullets in it!” 

The man went white and made to bolt for the door but Mr. Randall Holmes grabbed him and threw him back onto the chair. In which with my and Holmes's help he was soon tightly handcuffed.

“The _brother?”_ I asked, stunned.

“Mr. Jason Douglas, brother of James over there and himself a moderately decent translator”, Holmes said tightening the bonds to prevent any chance of escape. The man beneath him snarled but was helpless with so many ranged against him.

 _“You knew?”_ I demanded angrily.

We were interrupted by the arrival of three constables who had clearly been summonsed for the occasion. Mr. Jason Douglas was soon being led away, tightly bound and handcuffed to one of them.

“I suspected”, Holmes said. “It was the only way for the whole thing to make sense.”

“It is not making much sense to me!” I grumbled. 

“I shall go and take Mr. James Douglas for some refreshments and then receive our foreign guests”, Mr. Randall Holmes smirked. “Sher....” - he caught his brother's warning glance and visibly gulped - “Sherlock can explain things to you.”

He led the shorter man out. I pouted but sat back to hear what my friend had to say.

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“You are upset.”

 _Genius detective_ , I thought. _Gold star for you._

“You could have trusted me”, I said crossly. “You have in the past.”

We were sat in our fireside chairs in Baker Street, a roaring fire keeping out the damp spring chill. I knew that I had no real reason to feel betrayed but human emotions are rarely rational, and I still felt a little on edge because of my recent nightmare. He reached across to me and gently placed his hand over mine.

“I had very little time”, he said. “What with arranging everything and your being late from your patient, I did not wish you to go in with half the facts. Besides as I have said before, you are too righteous a person to be a good liar. That is one of the things that I so value about you.”

I looked down at his hand and felt childishly like pulling back from him, but I did not. He was right, damn him! There may indeed have been a danger that I could have done something stupid and risked endangering him. Or his vile brother though I did not care one iota about him. I smiled a small smile at him and was rewarded by a look of such relief that I immediately felt guilty at treating him so.

“Tell me everything now”, I said. 

He pulled back and sat in his own chair. 

“From the start I suspected that either Mr. James Douglas's mother or brother may have been behind whatever was happening”, he said. “However the mother was visiting a friend in Glamorganshire at the time of the attack, although there was of the course the possibility that she had hired someone. Mr. Jason Douglas however was 'walking back from a nearby tavern' and could easily have got to where the attack took place; I suspect that he was picked up by his former valet who subsequently helped him. It was he who had secured him his cottage and Mr. Greyland helped out his old master in return. His bank account showed that he was well rewarded for his actions.”

“The main point of the attack was to kidnap Mr. James Douglas and allow his brother to take his place for the meeting”, he went on. “Mr. Jason Douglas would then wilfully mistranslate something that would make the Greeks look to be at fault. Openly insulting someone on British soil would have made British public opinion less likely to back Athens as a result and the government is naturally pro-Turk. The new Greek state is still small and Mr. Jason Douglas banked on them losing the war and having to return their recent gains in Thessaly.”

“There was indeed an attack on his brother outside the Turkish baths but what happened next was very different to what the fake 'Mr. James Douglas' told the police. Fortunately the villain was averse to actually killing his brother and merely kept him drugged at the home of his former valet, although I am not sure what he might have done after all this was over. Dead men tell no tales, as they say. I found out about Mr. Greyland's recent financial gains courtesy of Miss St. Leger, so I knew that he was the likely culprit. I also found poor Mr. James Douglas although I could not converse with him as he was still drugged. With Randall's help I extracted him and impressed on the former valet that if he mentioned my visit to his employer then he himself would face not just kidnapping and accomplice charges but capital ones.”

I shuddered at that.

“Mr. Jason Douglas has to spend but a few days impersonating his brother. It is not actually that difficult. His former valet has bandaged him up and tells the servants at their house that their master is suffering from shock and needs long periods of rest. That serves to explain any unusual behaviour while his heavily bandaged face and dark glasses make him unrecognisable. I spoke to the servants and none of them saw both brothers together at any point after the attack.”

“Mr. Jason Douglas does however make one mistake which was unwittingly mentioned to me by his own valet, Mr. Thomas Farr. He told me that his master had started suffering from dandruff of late and that his clothes had to be brushed more thoroughly as a result. Jason Douglas was of course masquerading as his brother and spending some of his time living his life, so he had to use his brother's hair-brush which transferred the dandruff to his own head. There was also the odd matter of his ordering new clothes from town immediately after the attack; he is taller than his brother so the clothes would not fit well.”

“Finally he comes here. He is probably a little uneasy and my presence makes it worse but he is sure that he has covered everything. Then his brother whom he had thought was safely drugged and some sixty miles away appears at right in front of him. He pulls out what he thinks is his gun and fires. Nothing; the ginger-haired footman who admitted him is one of the best pickpockets in London and he was able to swap his gun when he admitted him.”

I stared at him in admiration.

“You may have just helped to prevent a major war”, I said.

“Delayed, not prevented”, he sighed. “That treaty left many areas of friction and I would not be surprised if Randall is right and one of them does flare up sometime in the future. Our only hope must be that Great Britain itself does not get drawn in. As the American Civil War so horribly showed us modern warfare is increasingly effective at killing soldiers; we are not dealing with African spear-men who obligingly run in front of a machine-gun then all crop down dead. A European war would be devastating.”

I agreed, little knowing that such a war was barely a quarter of a century away and that Great Britain would indeed find itself a party to it at a terrible cost in so many young lives. Nor that in what would turn out to be our last case together Holmes and I would play our own parts in that war. And that we would only get that far thanks in part to that briefly-mentioned Scottish seer who, for the moment, I had completely forgotten about.

For the moment.

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_Notes:_  
_† Caused by Russia's desire for leadership among their cultural brethren, the Southern Slavs. Bulgaria regained its independence from Ottoman rule while Serbia, Montenegro and Romania became de facto independent states. Russia's huge gains were partly reversed by the Congress of Berlin and it lost most of its new territories during the Russian Revolution. The Balkans remained a cultural powder-keg with ultimately disastrous consequences for the entire Continent._  
_‡ Confusingly the name of two cities, this was the one in Lebanon rather than the one in Libya. It does not help matters that both were later renamed Tripoli!_

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	4. Case 114: The Wrecking Of The 'Sophy Anderson'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. The most requested of all the originally-unpublished cases, one which took the dynamic duo back to Cornwall in their efforts to bring justice upon those who deserved it. A politician, a light-house, a trained cormorant – and someone else who just cannot take a hint!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: In these days of steam and even diesel engines, a 'bark' (or the alternative spelling 'barque') is increasingly rare. Put simply, a bark or bark-rigged vessel was one whose sails had been rearranged to allow sailing with a smaller crew, the compromise being a loss of speed and manoeuvrability. The 'U.S.S. Enterprise' on which we had a later adventure was a sail-and-steam ship that had been bark-rigged. The term originally referred to any small ship, and is the origin of the word 'barge'.

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Among the torrent of requests for stories hinted at when the original sixty tales of Holmes's adventures were published this was the one most requested, narrowly more so than the Abernetty Affair (the adventure in which the parsley sank too far into the butter, and in which a certain devious, manipulative, evil genius consulting detective took advantage of his poor, helpful friend!). This earlier adventure was however very different, concerning as it did murder on the high seas and the wrecking of the bark 'Sophy Anderson', and is of course known to my readers as the story of the politician, the light-house and the trained cormorant. Said readers will I know think it strange that such a bizarre case, which demonstrated Holmes's powers so aptly, was not initially released to the general public but I hope that on reading it in its entirety they will understand that a promise to a true lady is not one that any gentleman would break under any but the most extreme circumstances. Only much later with the passing of that lady to a better place plus a further attempt by the criminal involved to prevent the story from ever being published have I felt able to tell the world of a murder most strange.

Also to the new Lord Keady - wherever Abroad you have fled - may I say that if revenge is truly a dish best served cold then I am enjoying this particular meal _mightily!_

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Although the main sequence of events in this case occurred in the spring of 'Eighty-Seven, happenings some years earlier at the start of the Early Hiatus must first be related. As I am now re-writing matters from many decades after they occurred the political landscape in particular has changed considerably making the certainties of my youth (or at least my early to mid-thirties) seem like another world. Which in a way it was, a world the other side of the Great War to which we can never return.

In those far-off times British politics was much more fluid than it is today, let alone the fact that the Liberal Party was still one of the two major political powers in this country, not the fading force that it has since become. I have mentioned before how the introduction of the 1872 Secret Ballot Act had had the unintended consequence of initiating the move towards Home Rule for Ireland, which would ultimately all but destroy the Liberals. It certainly made the Irish Question a major talking-point and allowed several unscrupulous (I would wager that they preferred the term 'malleable') politicians to exploit both main parties to their own advantage. I know, I know; egotistical politicians serving only their own selfish ends. Who _would_ have thought it?

One such 'malleable' (ahem!) politician was Mr. Domnall Monaghan, a member of parliament who was a Liberal when elected at a by-election in late 'Eighty-Three. He was one of those people for whom the term 'spectacularly dull' could have been invented, but within two years he had been elevated to the peerage as Lord Keady sitting ostensibly as a cross-bencher (a non-aligned member of the House of Lords) though more often than not siding with his former colleagues. The scurrilous society magazines (which I almost never read, whatever anyone said) had all sorts of suggestions for this rapid rise, although I was sure that at least some of them were physically impossible. Or at least I hoped they were!

A year or so before the events described here, the new peer had been involved in two scandals in quick succession either of which could and likely should have ended his career. First had come a sordid affair involving the preferential issuing of government contracts which had led to the ruination of several businesses and in which he was almost certainly implicated, yet somehow the incriminating paperwork was 'mislaid' by the government and he managed to escape with his career if not his reputation intact. 

Barely a week later had come the far more serious accusation that he had slept with an East End prostitute and had had a child by her. The evidence had seemed conclusive but the lady in question had subsequently retracted her allegations and another witness had claimed that Lord Keady had been with him on his Scottish estate around the alleged time of conception. It was widely thought at the time that he was guilty and had paid the woman off (he almost certainly was and had), but again there was insufficient proof and he survived, leading the 'Times' to dub him 'The Great Escapist'. I suppose that that was better than their other nickname for him which referenced his not insignificant circumference, namely 'Dombo'!

Two months later the Grand Old Man (or as Disraeli had once snidely called his deadly rival, God's Only Mistake!) was defeated at the general election by the Conservatives under Lord (later the Marquess of) Salisbury, prime minister at the time of the events in this story. Lord Keady immediately showed a sudden tendency to support the Conservatives - who could _possibly_ have predicted that? - and less than a year after the election the fellow was being widely touted in the papers as possibly the next Lord Chancellor, leader of the Lords and one of the highest positions in the land. For the son of a fruit-seller from Ulster that was quite an achievement.

Until his son's actions threatened to bring down everything that he had worked to achieve, and the two of them resorted to cold-blooded murder to maintain the position that they believed was theirs as of right.

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It was but one month before the Golden Jubilee celebrations were to finally begin. It was one of those exceedingly rare days on which I had just chanced to be reading the society pages of the 'Times' at the breakfast-table – there was nothing interesting on the front page and my first client was living quite nearby, so there was no hurry – when the walking dead lurched into the room as morning-miserable as ever.

“Cof-fee!” it snarled. 

I chuckled and pushed his cup over to him, the sugar already being there. I had heard the thump from his falling out of his bed a minute ago; I swear he was actually getting worse in the mornings! He imbibed the sugary liquid and sighed contentedly before looking across at me.

“Society pages again, Watson?” he said teasingly.

If he could tease me after only one cup then he was fully awake. I did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

“There is another speculative piece about Lord Keady”, I said. 

“The 'Times' hates old Dombo”, he yawned, rolling his shoulders. “What has he done now?”

“Not so much him but his son Ruaraidh”, I said, thinking it typical of the man that he had spelt his son's name the Irish rather than the English way. “A right little popinjay if ever there was one; he went to Brazil two years ago to pursue a number of family interests there and returned last autumn. The 'Times' says that he is implicated in a scandal there and that it involved a lady, so that would be yet another one within barely a month. The luck of the Irish cannot surely hold out forever.”

Like me Holmes was hardly ever interested in the society pages, so I was surprised when he gestured me to read the article to him. I did so.

“'This columnist understands that a major scandal may be brewing over Mr. Rory' – they deliberately spell it the English way - 'Monaghan, the son and heir to the accident-prone cross-bencher Dombo, Lord Keady. Our man in Rio de Janeiro states that a certain flame-haired lady known only as 'Maria' is coming to England in order to discuss certain matters with the young buck. With regards to precisely what these are we do not have that information to hand, but it must certainly be grave if a lady is to venture a Transatlantic crossing at this time of year.” 

“Probably true, but definitely foolish”, Holmes remarked. 

I looked at him in surprise. He finished his (third) coffee and stared at the kettle as if he was seriously considering proposing to it, before continuing. 

“I have had my eye on The Great Escapist for some time”, he said pouring himself a fourth cup and looking hard at me for some reason. “The man has a sharp criminal mind but fortunately he is both lazy and blinkered. I am certain that he would not bestir himself unless, as in this case, either he or his family was threatened. Does your article say when the lady in question is to arrive in England?”

I scanned down the page.

“It does not”, I said. “You think that Lord Keady may try to stop her?”

“I very much fear so”, my friend said. “There are only so many ways that she could make the crossing especially at this quieter time of year, so it would be easy for him to work out which one she might use. I do hope that I am wrong.”

Sadly he was not.

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A week later I breakfasted alone. Holmes had had to go round to see his family the evening before and I had gone to bed before his return. I had known full well that this meant that he would arrive home in a Mood and would probably sleep little as a result. I took a coffee into his room where he was still dead to the world then returned to my morning paper and Mrs. Hudson's delicious breakfast. For once in a blue moon I would get to keep all my bacon!

 _'The bark 'Sophy Anderson' out of Liverpool has apparently been lost with all hands off the Lizard in Cornwall'_ , I read silently, not wishing to disturb the sleeping 'beauty' in the next room. _'It appears that she strayed too close to the coast while approaching the peninsula and was wrecked near Mullion Cove. Her cargo of Mediterranean glassware has, all too predictably, been looted by locals. No survivors have been reported although both the lifeboats are said to have been missing so it is possible that some of the passengers and crew made it to land. The ship left Lisbon, its third port of call, on the eighteenth and made good speed to its penultimate stop at Queenstown, Ireland, on the twentieth. She departed that port around mid-day heading for London. A misjudgement appears to have resulted in her attempting to turn before passing the great Lizard, with catastrophic consequences.'_

“Hence why we are expecting a client this morning, Watson.”

I let out what may have been described by an uncharitable person as an unmanly squeak. Holmes had appeared right behind me, clearly having had his coffee and looking far too chipper with only one dose of caffeine inside him.

“How did you know?” I demanded, feeling more than a little put-out.

He sat down opposite me and smiled when he saw that I had another coffee ready for him. 

“You always do a faint whistle through your teeth when you read something interesting”, he explained. “I learned of the vessel's loss from Luke yesterday evening – the one fruitful thing from another frightful home visit, apart from the fact that he could not sit down without crying! - so I knew that that article would be there today.”

He downed his second coffee at one go then stared mournfully at the empty cup.

“Well, you are not the only one with foresight”, I said a little waspishly. “Mrs. Hudson has said that after you broke the coffee-maker through over-use we should keep that small kettle in our rooms what with your coffee fetish, and she will buy herself another one.”

“Marry me!” he grinned, almost running towards the table.

“Not before you have had more coffee!” I chuckled.

He poured and downed a third cup at once then set to work on a fourth. His poor arteries! Still at least I had my...

Damnation, he was staring mournfully at the pile of bacon on my plate. Sighing I forked half of it over to him and the look of undying gratitude that I got in return made me feel all....

Ugh! Another Moment!

“Concerning the loss of the bark”, he smiled in between devouring his prize (seriously, there was actual drool!). “A Mrs. Evangelina Hurst wishes to consult with me on that very matter.”

“In what way is she linked to the sinking of the ship?” I asked.

“Doubtless we shall find out when she arrives”, he said. “Indeed from the tone of her telegram I fully expect her to be early. Perhaps you should send a boy to the surgery to tell them you have been delayed a little?”

I scowled. The only thing more annoying about his automatic assumption that I would fall in with his every wish was the fact that he was right damn him! Fortunately I had taken advantage of his distraction with his caffeine to devour my remaining bacon rashers, so at least I had had that.

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He was also right about Mrs. Hurst. At ten minutes to nine Mrs. Hudson sent us that our visitor had arrived and were we able to receive her ahead of her time? Holmes replied in the affirmative and we awaited her advent.

The first and most obvious thing about our visitor was the mourning clothes that she was wearing. Holmes guided her to a seat and sat opposite her. I took my usual place at the table, notebook at the ready.

“It is a dark case I lay before you today”, Mr. Holmes”, the lady said, and I noted that there was a faint foreign accent in her voice, possibly Hispanic. “Have you read in the newspapers about the loss of the bark 'Sophy Anderson'?”

“Doctor Watson has indeed relayed that story to me”, Holmes said. “May I assume that you have some links with both that and with the speculation surrounding Lord Keady?”

She lifted her veil and regarded him with dark eyes. I realized that she was younger than I had first thought, probably not more than twenty-five and very beautiful. 

“My name is Mrs. Evangeline Hurst”, she said. “I was born Evangelina Dallore in a small town not far from Rio de Janeiro, and when I was twenty-one I met and fell in love with my now-husband John who is a merchant trader. My younger sister was Maria Dallore who was set to expose Mr. Ruaraidh Monaghan, Lord Keady's son and heir, for the villain and blackguard that he truly is.”

“Early last year I received a letter from my sister stating that she was pregnant and that Mr. Monaghan was the father. When an illness set in and it seemed that she would lose both the baby and her life, he admitted his paternity and left her, presuming that she would die. However not only did she and her child both survive but the admission was overheard by two of her servants who later signed sworn statements to that effect. She had been ill for a long time but had recently recovered enough to come to England so as to confront the man who had misused her so.”

“Go on”, Holmes said gravely.

“I feared for my sister and warned her about Lord Keady's reputation, so she tried to keep everything secret”, our guest said. “She took a ship heading to London but got off at Lisbon and boarded the 'Sophy Anderson' instead. Unfortunately someone must have talked for I read the speculation about her coming in the newspapers. She sent me a telegram from Queenstown to say that two of the crew had been replaced and that one of the new sailors quite frightened her. He had a trained cormorant that he kept in a cage, and she felt that in some way that that was unlucky. My dear sister was always superstitious.....”

She stopped and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Lord Keady is involved in some way with the wrecking of that ship”, she said firmly. “I am certain that my sister has been murdered and that the man behind the murder is going to get away with it!”

Holmes reached across to pat her hand reassuringly.

“Lord Keady will already know that you have consulted us”, he said gently. “I am sure that he has taken the precaution of having you followed.”

She looked even more alarmed.

“Do not panic, madam”, he said firmly. “Fortunately tomorrow is Saturday, and as Watson is free he can accompany me to Cornwall to investigate this grave matter.”

She looked a little surprised at his agreeing to her request so readily but smiled in gratitude. 

“I am returning to my husband's house in Hertford”, she said placing a small card on the table. “I shall be anxious to hear your findings.” She hesitated before continuing. “John has agreed with my suggestion that we try to adopt Maria's son, Ross. I know that the Brazilian authorities may put up obstacles but... he is my nephew and he has no other family.”

“That is a most honourable thing on your part”, Holmes smiled. “If you take my card from the box on the table, I have contacts who may be able to help if the authorities are at all 'difficult' as well all know they are sometimes wont to be for no good reason. I promise that once I have definitive results from my investigations, I shall telegraph them to you.

She smiled at us, took a card, bade farewell and left. Holmes turned to where I was already at the bookshelf.

“Watson....”

“The 8:40 from Paddington, changing at Plymouth and Gwinear Road”, I said promptly. “The Helston Railway opened only last month so we do not have any timetables for it, but if there is not a train we can always take a cab all the way to Kynance, or the railway to Helston then a cab from there. Either way we would arrive at around five o' clock or thereabouts, so we shall have to find somewhere to stay the night.”

He smiled his honest smile.

“I am lucky to have you”, he said quietly before leaning over to pick up his violin. 

I felt stupidly warm inside. In truth I was the lucky one, even if I was going to have to hand in my Man Card any day now. _And that had better not have been a nod!_

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Our journey westwards was, unusually for the Great Western Railway, subject to some delay due to a spring storm that had flooded the main line around Weston-super-Mare. Although the train was able to struggle through, this meant that we did not reach the Lizard until just before six o' clock. Fortunately that still left us about two hours of daylight after we had checked into our hotel in Kynance. I knew that Holmes was on edge being back in Cornwall for the first time since our trip to find the vile Mr. Milton Carew on the Scilly Isles (The Adventure Of The Repellent Philanthropist), but he said nothing and I did not like to raise the subject myself. Cornwall always seemed to have the darkest cases for us, although at least there would be no leering and passably attractive young fishermen this time.

“What exactly are we looking for?” I asked as I struggled up a steep hill-path that was verging on the diagonal. I was not unfit because of all the walking I did in my job and it was patently wrong that a fellow who sat in his chair and solved crimes with the minimum of physical effort was moving effortlessly up the slope faster than I was. Life was unfair at times!

“Fire.”

“Fire?” I asked, nonplussed. 

He stopped so suddenly that I almost ran into him, then veered sharply left and headed across a barren patch of moorland. The sun was out but a strong wind was whipping up the salt from the sea and making it feel bitterly cold.

“Remember Watson, this is a wrecking coast”, he said gravely. “The government may be stronger these days but the locals still have the advantage of always being first at the scene of a disaster. Sometimes one that they have helped to cause!”

I tried to ignore my aching ankles and hastened to keep up with him. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Directly in front of us was what looked like a set of gallows!

“What the....?”

Holmes chuckled.

“You know your history, Watson”, he grinned. “Remember the Spanish Armada? Warnings were flashed to London by a system of beacons, the sixteenth century's own form of telegraph.”

I looked suspiciously at the beacon. 

_“That_ cannot be three centuries old”, I said firmly. “Anything made of wood in this sort of environment would not last that long, especially right here on the coast. It must be recent.”

“Excellent, doctor!” He was genuinely smiling. “Anything else?”

I looked at the beacon for some little time before it clicked.

“There is ash in the main part”, I said. “It has been lit recently otherwise all the wind would have blown it away. The rain or damp must have got into it and made it heavy enough to have stayed there until it dried out.”

“Even better!” he smiled. “We will make a detective of you yet. Let us investigate further and I think we may yet entangle 'The Great Escapist' in a net that not even he can escape from.”

However it seemed there was nothing more to find apart from some rotten fish remains, presumably from some seabird blown here by this infernal wind. Nonetheless they seemed to fascinate Holmes for some strange reason. 

We returned to the hamlet of Kynance and our room. To my surprise he said that he wanted to spend some time in the local tavern but I was tired after both a long journey and our cliff-side trek so decided to turn in early. I slept like a log.

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I was more than a little surprised when it seemed that the whole hamlet had turned out to see us off the following morning. I knew that my friend was gradually achieving the recognition he so deserved – the 'Strand' magazine had just begun publishing my story about the Beryl Coronet, which thankfully had been one of the easier ones to get down onto paper – but in this remote part of the world such a reception was still surprising. Especially when it emerged that one of the locals, a sulky-looking thin young fellow called Mr. Liam Dent, was coming with us. Not willingly, judging from his expression; he did not speak and glared at me like it was somehow my fault that he was there. Which it was not (I think).

We alighted from the main line train at Truro and headed to the offices of a local lawyer, a prosperous one judging from its size. Holmes told me that his business there would take a couple of hours and I might amuse myself by wandering around the town if I so wished. I of course went to the cathedral then did some window-shopping before going back to the lawyer's. When Holmes came out a few minutes later he was alone.

“Our 'friend' is not coming to London?” I asked.

“He is not needed”, Holmes said. “Also he is no friend of ours, as he is partly responsible for the death of our client's sister. I hope that you enjoyed the cathedral. Did you manage to check the train times?”

“There is a train to Paddington in thirty-five minutes”, I said silently pleased that he had thought to allow me time for my own interests. 

“Good”, he smiled. “This has been a most interesting adventure.”

Clearly I was not to be illuminated. I pouted but I had not Stevie's (or Holmes's) power when it came to my face and it had no effect on my friend. I sighed. Life was unfair like that, too.

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Our journey back was mercifully trouble-free and we arrived at Baker Street to a late dinner. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had thrown together a delicious stew which had only needed to be reheated, and we both devoured it eagerly. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened in Truro?” I asked later.

“Our friend was providing a witness statement”, he said. “I wanted it recorded and officially copied, then sent safely to a number of different locations by private courier. I am sure that Lord Keady will make some attempt to prevent the truth from emerging, so I wished to make it as difficult as possible for him.”

“I am surprised that he did not have us followed to Cornwall”, I said. He chuckled.

“He would have done”, he said, “except that I sent LeStrade a telegram asking that his men arrest the watcher just before we left yesterday morning. Doubtless his lordship will have guessed where we would have gone but as our friend obligingly held his man all day before letting him go and tell him the bad news, there was little that he could have done except to have grown wings and flown down there after us!”

I smiled.

“I have invited the two villains here tomorrow”, he said. “Well, two of the villains, and definitely the main perpetrators of this crime. Then hopefully I shall then be able to deliver at least some good news to Mrs. Hurst. Not maybe the news that she wants or even deserves, but as so often we must make the best of a bad situation.”

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“Lord Keady and Mr. Ruaraidh Monaghan.”

It was wonderful how Mrs. Hudson could throw such complete scorn into the simple announcement of a pair of names. Both our guests looked after her in astonishment, clearly bemused at how someone so far beneath them on the social ladder would _dare_ to introduce them in such a way!

Lord Keady was about fifty, as rotund as his nickname suggested and with badly-dyed hair. He even had a larger than average nose to reinforce his nickname. His son was a little over twenty, tall and supercilious-looking. He had a monocle which I guessed was more for effect that need. I disliked both of them on sight.

“You asked to see me, Mr. Holmes”, the peer said. “Pray keep it brief. I am due at the Lords in an hour.”

“I would be delighted so to do”, Holmes said with what I knew by now to be a totally false smile. “It concerns your grandson.”

Even with his pale skin the peer turned a shade whiter.

“I have no grandson”, he said firmly. Holmes sighed.

“The result of an affair between your son here and a Brazilian lady named Maria Dallore”, he said. “He confessed to it when he thought that she was dying in childbirth, shortly before he abandoned her.”

“Do you have proof of this?” Lord Keady sneered. “Where, pray? I do not see it.”

Holmes looked hard to him.

“Before I relate the sequence of events”, he said and his tone was cold now, “I wish you to understand the seriousness of this matter. You employed two brothers in your foul plans, one of whom murdered Maria Dallore. If you were to obtain a Western newspaper this evening you would find that Mr. Nathan Dent met a tragic accident walking along the cliffs. I can tell you that it was not an accident.”

Both men had gone pale.

“His brother Liam, who only agreed to participate in this foul deed under pressure, has confessed their roles which I have had sealed in front of a quality lawyer. Mr. Liam Dent was told that for his role in the crime Nemesis would be delayed twenty-four hours during which he might or might not choose to leave the country; he made a rare good choice in life and did so. His confession has been legally copied and now resides in three separate and safe locations. All three are under instruction that should they fail to receive a second telegram from me by nine o' clock tomorrow morning they are to supply said evidence free to all the principal London newspapers. I am sure that they would be fascinated by it, especially the 'Times' which as you know is hardly your most ardent supporter.”

The politician swallowed hard. I had precisely zero sympathy for him.

“He is bluffing, father”, the young man said, but I could see that he did not believe that.

“I am not”, Holmes said, “and a copy of that newspaper with Mr. Dent's demise will be delivered to your house tomorrow. To resume, even though your son thought that the lady he had so cruelly abused was all but dead, you kept a sharp watch on her. So when she and her baby survived, you knew that one day there would be trouble. For you _and_ your son.”

“The lady recovers enough to come to England, at the worst possible time as far as you are concerned. The current Lord Chancellor is set to step down at the end of this year and you are tantalizingly close to a major office at last, one from which you could almost certainly lever your son into the political scene alongside you. You cannot risk this woman talking. She must be stopped – permanently!”

Both men were now very nervous. Lord Keady eyed the door hopefully.

“Your plan revolves around two groups of people”, Holmes said. “The first I do not know but they are immaterial to things; their sole job is to make sure that at a certain time the light-house at the Lizard is taken out of commission for a few hours. They are not told why but regretfully a large sum of money will buy the silence and co-operation of most men, even in an act of murder.”

“You know that the 'Sophy Anderson' is to put in at Queenstown before going on to London. Using your influence you buy off two of the crew and replace them with your own men, in particular Mr. Nathan Dent. Though it is not he who will play a major role in the tragedy that is to befall the ship but his feathered friend – _a trained cormorant!”_

I gasped. Both our visitors now looked deathly pale.

“Before the ship leaves harbour”, Holmes continued, “Mr. Nathan Dent sends a telegram to his brother Liam in the small hamlet of Kynance. That place lies a few miles west of the Lizard and its location is important. Mr. Nathan Dent is doubtless ready to sabotage the ship to some extent because it is vitally important to his – and your – dark scheme that the ship traverses the south Cornish coast in the dark. However judging from the time on the telegram that Miss Dallore herself sent from Queenstown and the subsequent wind conditions in the western approaches, I estimated it would be the small hours of the morning as the ship approached the Lizard. Even better for your dark schemes, a storm was brewing up and clouds obscured the moon.”

“Shortly after the ship rounds Land's End Mr. Nathan Dent dispatches the bird which, as trained, flies straight to the cottage of his brother not far from the beacon he maintains against the tempestuous Cornish weather. The bird is duly rewarded with a meal of fish the remains of which we found near the cottage. Mr. Liam Dent lights the beacon and with the Lizard light out the ship's captain steers around that light then turns east-north-east, on a course which should keep him clear of the coast most of the way to the Straits of Dover. Instead he steers his ship straight onto the treacherous Cornish rocks.”

He fixed the peer with a sharp glare.

“To spare his own wretched neck Mr. Liam Dent confessed that as I had suspected, his brother had before leaving the ship made absolutely certain that poor Miss Dallore was no more. For that he has now paid the ultimate price. Which brings me to possibly the most sordid part of this whole business for much as it pains me to say it, I have to offer you a deal.”

“Holmes!” I protested.

“Publicity will only harm Mrs. Hurst and her family, let alone the boy”, he said. “Lord Keady, the deal is this. You will not accept the Lord Chancellorship. Your son may one day inherit your title and position in the Lords but he will refuse any high office. You and your agents will not harm Mrs. Hurst and her family, including your grandson, in any way, shape or form. She will bring the boy to England and raise him as her own, and neither you nor your son will contact him. He will have to be told the terrible truth about his past when he is of age and, if he so wishes, _he_ may then choose to contact _you_. That is his prerogative, and a decision he will make when he is able. I must further tell you that if you break any of these conditions then Doctor Watson will publish a full and frank account of every foul thing that you have done – including proofs I have obtained that you were indeed guilty over your two recent 'escapes'.”

The peer drew himself up and for a moment I thought he was going to strike Holmes. Then he seemed to slump and almost snarled before sweeping round and heading out of the door. His son followed, sparing us a last angry glance.

“I so wish that I could ruin that excuse for a man”, Holmes sighed, sinking into his chair. “Lord, the pleasure it would give me so to do! But innocent people would get hurt and we owe it to that dear Hertfordshire lady to make sure that her sister did not die in vain, and that a small boy in Brazil can have a good life. This way I can promise a safe life for her and her loved ones, including her nephew who can now be brought to England.”

I remembered how I had reacted after the Easington Case when I had considered him to be applying his own rules of justice, and I felt for my friend. I came across and put my hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

“You acted for the best”, I said firmly. “I would have had to do the same.”

He reached back and placed a hand over mine.

“Thank you my friend”, he said quietly. “That.... it means a lot.”

We stood there for some time, sharing a Moment together. Holmes was my friend so I did not mind.

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Postscriptum: Master Ross Dallore arrived safely in England that summer and was subsequently raised by his aunt and uncle. They offered to adopt him formally once he came of age in 1907 but he declined, although he said that he was deeply grateful for all they had done. He later came to see us in Baker Street in order to thank us personally. He became a fine young gentleman and is now happily married with a small family, working as a deputy manager at a bank in the City. He named his elder daughter after his late mother, and chose to never contact his father or grandfather.

Mr. Hurst died in 1918 and Mrs. Hurst followed him into the hereafter in 1920. That may have laid the matter to rest, but when Mr. Ruaraidh Monaghan, (who had become the new Lord Keady upon his father's death in 1908) announced in 1921 that he was considering himself as a future prime minister, Holmes contacted Mr. Ross Dallory-Hurst (as he had become) for permission to publish, something he was more than happy to grant, just in time for my first addition to the Sherlock canon! I would have very kindly sent the new lord a copy, but I knew not which country he had fled to. Nor cared for that matter!

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	5. Case 115: Lord Backwater's Downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. The ever-faster advance of technology comes to the fore and, predictably, there is someone all too ready to abuse it – only to find that like the proverbial knife, it can cut both ways.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

In deciding which of my friend's many hundreds of cases could and should be added to the Sherlock canon, one of the key factors was that no _innocent_ person should be harmed. The passings of several people have allowed a number of cases to pass that bar, but this case was unique in that the number of those affected ran some way into dozens. Fortunately and after some copious letter-writing I was quite surprised that, without exception, they agreed as one that the case should now be published. I should also say before starting that among those affected by this crime were Holmes and myself. 

Especially myself.

Let us continue.

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“Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.”

I looked across at my friend in surprise. It was springtime in Baker Street but as so often someone had forgotten to inform the English weather which had continued with a cold, dense winter fog for over a month now. I was never more glad that for the previous Christmas Holmes had gifted me another voucher for the expensive clothes store that he frequented and that I could never have dared to aspire to on my salary and that I had been able to purchase some more of their insanely warm winter vests, which had stopped me from having to tend to my hypochondriacal patients through chattering teeth on the days when the surgery's fires burned low.

“An old saying”, I said as I warmed myself by our vastly superior fire. “Not really true in my opinion.”

The pause that followed went on far too long. I turned and looked at him.

“I doubt that you will think so after you have seen the 'Times' today”, he said gravely. 

“What is in it?” I asked.

“Us”, he said handing me the paper. I took it, sat down and read the infamous 'Barking Hound' column that he had marked:

_'Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show is, I grudgingly have to concede, one of those small few fripperies that matches the predictably overblown publicity efforts with which such things are wont to surround themselves in this day and age. I would not of course recommend it – I never recommend anything - but if one is looking for a fair return on the pennies one spends on amusement, it is I suppose a tolerable way to pass an evening. There are many worse ones in this hole that we call London._

_The great and the good are of course invited along_ gratis _in the hope that we lesser mortals will follow them like sheep, such is the contempt in which the_ hoi polloi _hold the bulk of us. I observed that the irredeemably immodest consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his ever-present shadow Doctor John Watson were both in attendance at the Show. I am frankly beginning to wonder if the doctor is some obedient lap-dog, following his mental master everywhere. And I do mean everywhere...._ '

I swallowed hard at the implication of the article. Since the passing of the Criminal Law (Amendment) Act two years back, attitudes towards sex between gentlemen had hardened somewhat. Although I had been in Egypt at the time I had fretted on reading it for Holmes's stepbrother Mr. Kerr and his chain of 'Debating Societies', although when I had mentioned this to my friend after my return, he had reassured me that his relative had more than enough on the authorities to make any actions against him inadvisable if not socially apocalyptic. People knew that places like that existed and that by implication there had to be a market for.... that sort of thing, but any gentleman who was publicly homosexual could expect at very least social ruin if not worse (indeed, it is noteworthy that the most famous prosecution under the new law, that of the playwright Mr. Oscar Wilde, took place a full decade after its passing and only then because the fellow was so public in his leanings). Little wonder that some of my clients that day had looked at me rather strangely, or that nosy old Mrs. Whittle had asked about 'your _dear_ friend'. This could ruin me.

This _would_ ruin Holmes.

“Who wrote this?” I growled.

“Luke came round earlier”, he said, seemingly unaffected by the whole thing. “Naturally he is concerned; not just for us and of course for his beloved Benji but for Mother, who will be reaching for her revolver and hunting the fellow down herself if we do not.”

“That would be terrible”, I said flatly. He shook his head at me,

“Fortunately”, he said, “he has been able to identify the mysterious 'Hound'. The villain is young Lord Robert Backwater, the youngest son of Lord Bray.”

“He has to be stopped!” I exclaimed. 

Holmes sighed.

“I have had concerns about the fellow for some little time”, he said, “but had thought his ramblings comparatively harmless. However, in the past few months he has become more and more open in his accusations levelled at various people, mostly from the upper levels of society. It is time that he was dealt with once and for all.”

“What will you do?” I asked,

“To start with I have asked his father if he will pay me the courtesy of a visit tonight”, he said. “As you know the family live a little way out into Essex but I happen to know that he is one of the sponsors of the show that we saw the other night, and is therefore in town. We shall ask him about his wayward son and then proceed from there.”

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Lisle, Lord Bray was far from what I had imagined, a tired-looking blond fellow in his early fifties. I knew that he had four sons and that he was separated from his wife, a female – I cannot use the term 'lady' - who could have rivalled Inspector Macdonald's unpleasant wife in her complete absence of any morality. The renegade son, Robert, was the only one who lived with his mother and Mr. Hugh Edwards, the mining magnate who she was currently sponging off. Not that I ever read the social pages for such gossip.

Someone's judgemental silences were still as annoying as ever!

“I wish that I could help you, Mr. Holmes”, the nobleman said. “I really do. Robert is rapidly going off the rails of late, and unless something is done to stop him I fear that it will end in disaster for both him and his victims.”

“Why do you not disinherit him then?” I asked thinking that our guest was being somewhat less than a man in dealing with a problem that he had created. The nobleman sighed unhappily.

“Our family is rather awkwardly situated in that respect”, he said. “My own dear father – the Earl of Kingstown, as you know – is very set in his ways. He would never countenance disinheriting any of his descendants for anything short of full-blooded murder; perhaps not even then. He also maintains an iron grip on the estate. I could disinherit the boy, doctor, but he would still inherit a quarter of my estate because of the wording of my father's will; I can only leave my few personal funds elsewhere and he would barely notice their absence.”

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

“You and your father are of the old faith?” he asked at last. The nobleman looked surprised.

“Yes”, he said warily. “Is that relevant?”

“What about your wayward son?” Holmes pressed. The nobleman huffed

“Like his mother, Robert does not 'do' religion”, he said sourly. “He was of course baptized as a Catholic as were all my sons, but the faith has seen little if anything of him since he attained adulthood. My other three sons all attend church regularly; I am proud of them all.”

“Most interesting”, Holmes smiled. “Thank you, sir. I have to tell you that your son has made an allegation against my friend the doctor here to which I have taken umbrage. I fully intend to make sure that he does not repeat that error.”

“Sir”, the nobleman said rising to his feet, “be just as sure that in any amelioration you make to the way my offspring conducts himself, and through means legal or otherwise, you shall have my full support!”

He bowed and left. Holmes remained thoughtful for several minutes staring into the fire before leaping to his feet.

“I must go out”, he said. “Alone.”

I had been about to follow him but sank back dispiritedly into my chair. He smiled consolingly at me.

“I need to employ the services of one of our fair city's less reputable citizens”, he said. “By which I mean, criminal. He is not someone who would tolerate even your presence, friend, otherwise I would surely take you along.”

“Oh, I said, slightly mollified. “Very well.”

“If you wish to do me a service”, he said, “you could make a list of all those accused by this vile personage in copies of the 'Times' that we still have. Also to extend your efforts to the older copies that I know Mrs. Hudson keeps around. That would help me greatly.”

I felt instinctively that it would probably help him very little but that he cared for my feelings at a time like this was more warming than even the flames a short distance away. I smiled at him as he left, then set to work.

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Dame Fortune favoured me that day (or maybe she too loathed Lord Robert Backwater just as much as nearly everyone else). I sent down for a coffee while I searched and, unusually, Miss Thackeray brought it up. She stared in amazement at the mess of papers everywhere.

“What _are_ you doing?” she asked, doubtless wondering just where her aunt might bury my body if she got to see this mess. 

“I am looking for articles in the 'Times' about that damnable 'Barking Hound' columnist”, I told her. “Holmes keeps lots of old newspapers but getting him to maintain any sort of system is a nightmare!”

“Maybe you should try 'Razzle-Dazzle'?” she suggested. 

I stared at her in confusion.

“Is that some sort of cleaning powder?” I ventured. 

She tried not to laugh at my social ignorance and nearly pulled it off. But not nearly enough.

“It is a weekly gossip magazine based in the East End”, she giggled. “The fellow who calls himself 'Barking Hound' started out with them before he joined the 'Times'; I read somewhere that he tried to get out for the better pay, but in the end they settled for his articles appearing in both at the same time. They serve very different readerships, I suppose.”

“Does your aunt know about your choice of reading material?” I asked.

“I suspect so”, she said cheerily. “She 'borrows' all my copies when I am out of the house and replaces them very carefully afterwards. If she was not prone to dusting them as well I might not have noticed!”

What with that and her gun collection, I made a mental note never to get on the wrong side of Miss Josephine Thackeray. 

“You can borrow all my back copies, doctor”, she said affably. “His article is always in the same place, page three, so you will not have to continue your paper chase.”

“Thank you!” I said fervently.

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The list that I was able to give Holmes when he returned later that day was long indeed. Men have taken a last trip along the bed of Old Father Thames for annoying half the number of people that Lord Backwater had notched up. Holmes thanked me and smiled knowingly but would say nothing, no matter how much I scowled (it was not a pout whatever anyone said). But he had also brought back a bag of chocolate drops so I decided to be the bigger man and say nothing.

_Despite that damn smirk!_

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I have often remarked that Holmes tackled many cases both great and small in my time with him. Now in the midst of this decidedly serious case he solved a small mystery that was trifling in the extreme but proved most timely, as it brought him the thanks of our landlady just when he most needed it.

221B was as I have said the right-hand (northern) part of what had once been a single house, Glendower Mansion. The old building had been separated out into three houses in most aspects but the properties that superseded it did still share one thing; a copious bunker at the back into which coal deliveries for all three houses were placed. All three landladies had a key to the place and when Mrs. Hudson approached us one day over a sack of coal that had gone missing from it I at first thought it only a minor thing (although the fact that she owned and knew how to use a pistol prevented me from saying as much!). Holmes however took the matter very seriously and after some quick investigations was able to finger the coal-merchant who, by careful placing and marking of sacks, had been swindling the three landladies out of a whole sackful of coal every now and again. My friend also used his contacts to force the fellow to deliver double what he had taken for six months rather than face a potentially ruinous prosecution, and our landlady was very grateful.

Which as things turned out was all to the good.

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Just over a week after the 'coal case' we had a caller at 221B; Donald, Earl of Kingstown. He was a smart and expensively-dressed elderly gentleman who looked wary of us from the start.

“I would not have come today, sir”, he grumbled, “but you did help catch that former servant of mine who tried to steal from Elizabeth - the Countess of New Ross - so I suppose that I owe you something. Although if it is about that grandson of mine, then you are wasting your breath.”

“That is a pity”, Holmes said. “I have a source who is usually more than reliable, and he has told me that your grandson has been indulging in some rather, ahem, irregular practices.”

“Poppycock!” the old man snorted.

“Well, that remains to be seen”, Holmes said, “although of course....”

He got no further for the door burst open and a sallow-faced young man burst through unannounced, Mrs. Hudson's maid Mary flapping uselessly behind him.

“That is all right, Mary”, Holmes said consolingly. “You may leave us. This person is expected.”

“Grandfather!” the man burst out. “Thank God that I found you!”

So this was the villainous Lord Robert Backwater. Frankly that he looked the part, a ferret-faced, unkempt youth who was waving a brown envelope about for some reason. He glared at us both and there was a dangerous look of triumph in your eyes.

“I always thought you interfering busybodies might try to stick your noses in where they weren't wanted”, he said catching his breath. “And now I've got you both, or at least the good doctor here. Or should I say the _bad_ doctor?”

“What do you mean, Robert?” his grandfather demanded. The young man turned to him.

“I had a tip last week that the doctor here, for all his propriety, liked to indulge in the ladies of the night when he thought society wasn't looking”, he said to my utter astonishment. “So I got one of my friends to follow him. and this afternoon I got a telegram to say that he was headed down the docks for some good old hanky-panky!”

I was sure that I had not done that. Fairly sure. Although the strange expression on Holmes's face had me more than a little worried.

“I paid one of the girls to keep a watch on him”, the man grinned. So no matter how much the good doctor denies it I doubt that he will be able to deny the evidence... of a photograph!”

“I have heard it said that the camera never lies”, Holmes said, far too calmly in my opinion given what the villain here was claiming. “But I would strongly advise you not to show what is in that envelope, sir. It would not be in your best interests.”

The young lord sneered at him.

“I shall do as I like, _sir!”_ he snapped, opening the envelope and taking out a large photograph. The British public will know exactly what to think about the subject of this photograph when they see him in such a position!”

He slammed the photograph down onto the table where his grandfather was sitting and stared at us both triumphantly. Holmes was, I considered, taking these outrageous allegations rather too calmly for my liking and he just smiled lazily. The earl stared in confusion at the picture then tipped his head to one side.

“Robert”, he said quietly, “what _are_ you doing with that feather?”

I took a deep breath and looked at the picture as did the suddenly puzzled young man. It showed someone who was very clearly not me (thank God!) and was equally very clearly the young lord across from me. An apparently extremely flexible young lord across from me who spluttered then stopped, clearly working something out. His eyes lit up in triumph.

“That bastard who bumped me on the stairs!” he exclaimed. “He must have swapped the pictures somehow!”

“What person was this?” the earl demanded as Holmes took the picture and crossed the room, pressing the bell for the maid.

“Short chap in a long-coat, smelled of fish or something foul”, the young man said. “He raced out of the front door as if his life depended on it. Nearly knocked over the landlady on his way out; she yelled at him to stop but he ignored her.”

There was a knock at the door – that was fast, I thought – and to my surprise Mrs. Hudson herself appeared.

“I was fetching some sheets from the cupboard along the corridor”, she explained, “so I thought that I would answer and save Mary a trip. Is something wrong, gentlemen?”

“You were there!” Lord Backwater said, looking more cheerful. “You saw him!”

She looked at him in confusion.

“Saw who, sir?” she asked.

“The man who pushed past me on the stairs”, he snapped. “About my age and wore a long-coat. Smelled of fish. He knocked you back in the hallway on his way out and you yelled at him.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“Sir, the only gentlemen who have come to the house today are His Grace” - there was a definite pause before she added balefully - “and, I suppose, yourself. I have been writing in my private room near the door for the past hour or more and I can say most assuredly that we have had no other visitors.”

The young man seemed to have lost the power of speech at her words. We all stared at him.

“Grandfather, they are all in on it!” he protested. “Besides you can see that this picture has been taken only very recently. I was at home all day yesterday apart from a short visit to a local tavern”

“How short?” I wondered aloud.

He glared at me but then his eyes narrowed.

“Wait a minute”, he said, evidently working something out. “I remember now. This fellow came over and purchased me a drink, mistaking me for an old friend of his. There must have been something in it; I remember waking up at the table.” He turned on Holmes. “You had me drugged and set this picture up!”

Mrs. Hudson sniggered, and I did not blame her. I had heard better excuses from some of my patients.

“I would stick with that story”, Holmes smiled unpleasantly. “It may be your best hope of explaining this second photograph. I am sorry Your Grace, but when I said that your grandson was indulging in irregular practices, I spoke the truth. Incredibly it is even worse than his, ahem, bending over backwards!”

He moved the photograph to reveal a second picture behind it. This time I did reach for my doctor's bag.

 _“Robert!”_ the nobleman roared. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Grandfather?” the young man asked, clearly confused. 

“This is a picture of you stark naked in a.... a.... a....” the old earl drew in a deep breath before he could get the dreadful word out, “a _Protestant church!”_

His grandson stared at him in confusion, then down at the picture as if he could not quite believe it. He made to grab it presumably to either tear it up or throw it into the fire but Holmes moved faster than even I would have thought possible and seized it first. The young man stared at him in shock then his face darkened.

“This is a fake!” the young man shouted.

Holmes was examining the second photograph and had picked up a magnifying glass.

“This picture was indeed taken yesterday”, he said. “Sunday. It is only just visible but, close to the camera, the picture-taker has caught the front page of a newspaper on the table. The headline is the one from yesterday about the developing and worrisome German situation; I remember reading it.”

“Is that really the best that you can come up with, Robert?” the earl said hotly. “You are claiming that these two gentlemen somehow drugged you, removed all your clothes and made you visit a.... a.... a....” - he clearly had to build up to the dreadful word - “a _Protestant church?_ Sir, your eyes were very clearly wide open as you are stood there in that aisle, let alone the Bible that is covering..... ye Gods, you are no blood of mine!”

He turned to Holmes.

“I am sorry to trouble you gentlemen”, he said with an impressive degree of collection, “but do either of you know of any trustworthy solicitors in the area? I feel a sudden and pressing urge to rewrite my will.”

Holmes smiled.

“As it happens, there is one who lives in 221 next door but one....”

The door slammed behind our other 'guest'.

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“We owe Mrs. Hudson for playing her part in this too”, Holmes smiled later. “I doubt that the 'Barking Hound' will be making many further allegations now he has been disinherited and is about to be thrown out of employment.”

“How did you manage those pictures?” I asked.

“It was obviously not young Lord Backwater”, Holmes said, “but I arranged for him to be unable to provide an alibi for when they were both taken. The man in the picture is a young actor friend of mine who is amazingly adaptable in the parts he plays.”

“Not to mention flexible!” I muttered thinking of the first photograph. He smiled.

“It seemed appropriate”, he went on. “Young Robert Backwater enjoyed attempting to ruin people's lives so what more fitting way to stop him than by ruining his? I am sure that his family will most likely pay him off to go abroad somewhere which might be the best solution all round, although I pity whichever part of the world may end up with him. Leopards hardly ever change their spots, as they say.”

“The most obvious line of attack seemed to be the religious one. I knew that the old earl was fervently Catholic and that seeing any relative of his going anywhere near 'the new faith' – it was safe to say that he might not be best pleased. Let alone being stark naked in one of their churches with only a Bible to cover his modesty! This morning someone delivered the villain a set of compromising pictures about a famous Londoner and he could not resist coming round to challenge that person and boast about the forthcoming downfall. Or more likely hope for an offer of cash to 'forget' the whole thing.”

I was about to smile at that when it hit me.

“Wait a minute”, I said suspiciously. “He accused _me!”_

Holmes smiled knowingly.

“What were the other pictures of?” I demanded.

“The gentleman whom young Lord Backwater encountered on the stairs is one of the capital's top pickpockets”, he said, and I noted that he was not answering my question. “He swapped over the envelopes without his quarry ever being aware of it.”

 _“What were the other pictures of?”_ I demanded even more testily.

He grinned and handed me an envelope identical to the one our unwanted guest had had. I opened it tentatively and looked at the two pictures inside, spreading them out on the table. Then I too tipped my head sideways, trying to take in what I was seeing. The 'Times' - hell even that rag 'Razzle-Dazzle' – would pay a king's ransom for these!

“Is that even physically possible?” I wondered, silently thinking that I would never view a candelabra in quite the same way again.

“The camera never lies!” he smiled.

Sometimes I wondered what I saw in him!

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	6. Interlude: Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Paddling one's own canoe.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I did not realize it beforehand but the vile Lord Robert Backwater's attempt to destroy my friend effected a subtle but noticeable change in our relationship. Watson had always looked at me with the sort of admiring loyalty that made me feel warm inside but of course we never discussed certain 'emotional' matters because.... well, we were Men. I supposed that his brother Stephen was right in describing him as 'Mr. Legendary Emotional Constipation' for I quickly ascertained that any conversation that veered anywhere close to those things called Feelings made my friend look as if he wished to flee for the hills.

Not in all fairness that I was much better.

Nevertheless that coupled with the attempt on my life six months earlier seemed to shake something loose in my friend and I came to notice some subtle changes in his behaviour. In particular he took to joining me on the couch when we read of an evening. I presumed initially this was because of my strange tendency to generate warmth – I never seemed to feel the cold for some reason – but for someone like Watson who valued his personal space more than most, the fact that I was allowed into that 'space' (or that he was content to invade mine) was noteworthy.

Then there was the matter of his writing-desk. When he wanted to write letters Watson had always sat at the table over by the window which was much more well-lit. He rarely used his own writing-desk for writing – until now when he suddenly took to doing just that. That it was directly behind the chair in which I sat by the fire and that I sometimes caught him looking pensively at me was.... also noteworthy.

These changes in behaviour did not go unnoticed by others, most annoyingly by my brother Randall for whom the idea of keeping his opinions to himself ranked alongside consideration of others and being a decent human being in his long list of concepts unknown and absolutely certain never to be experienced. One day he got quite cross that I would not leave Watson (who was off work with a rare bout of the flu) and travel to some place in Hertfordshire to attend to some trifling matter for him. We had Words and my brother stormed out, threatening not to come back until I saw reason.

I so missed him over the next few weeks – not! However I told my friend that he could not have a celebration party no matter how much he pouted. Although I did buy him an unexpected box of chocolate fudge squares. Which I had had the shop ice with a picture of a closing door.

The only thing that worried me was that I could see the way in which our relationship was heading, as surely as a man paddling a canoe down a river could see the rim of the waterfall in the distance. Yet I was utterly powerless to stop the inevitable fall to disaster. Nor did I want to. Because Watson was so good, so great, so righteous, the fall would be worth it.

I was less than six month away from going over that waterfall.

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	7. Case 116: The Sign Of The Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Holmes saves the life of someone who Watson does not like one little bit. And a certain consulting detective bares his.... chest, leaving a certain doctor teetering dangerously on the edge of another Moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Mainwaring is pronounced 'mannering'. The character in this story is not related to the gentleman of the same surname whom we encountered some years later.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This case resides in my memory for two reasons. Firstly a story involving serial killing ended up by a terrible coincidence being published just as the city of London was being terrorized by its most infamous serial killer (so far, I add), and even though the dates and events in the story showed that I could not have foreseen this unhappy coincidence I still felt somewhat guilty. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly the case brought a female – I cannot overstretch the English language by using the term 'lady' - into my life who was to make me feel things that... well, things that I was not accustomed to feel. Fortunately I was (and still am, some blue-eyed bacon-stealing genius would say) a Grandmaster of Denial, which was probably just as well.

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I will not deny that my recent encounter with young Lord Backwater and his scurrilous accusations against me had made my flesh crawl. The evening after he left I had taken a long bath – I felt the urge to somehow 'wash him off of me' stupid although that probably was. The only redeeming factor was that Holmes had come to my rescue although the accusations made by that vermin had stung. I was a Victorian gentleman, damnation, and I did not.... and even if I did, Holmes would not.... damnation again!

The worst thing was that my relationship with my genius friend might to some outsiders look as if we were... well, as if we _were_. Frankly I sometimes wondered why Holmes kept me around; there had to be many women out there who would have jumped at if not paid good money for the chance to become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes and, while there was no familial pressure on his to marry (for which I silently blessed his formidable and absolutely terrifying mother), I still wondered why he had not ditched me for some attractive potential spouse.

In light of what happened next I really, _really_ had to start learning to keep such thoughts to myself.

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It was the eighth of June and less than two weeks until the Golden Jubilee celebrations started when I opened my newspaper at our breakfast-table to read about the various happenings in the Great Wen. In the few days since the ending of the Lord Backwater case I had picked up the 'Times' with more than a little trepidation, in case there were further allegations or insinuations against either of us, but fortunately there had been none. Not even on the social pages, which I was forced to scan a lot more than usual. Miss Josephine Thackeray had also assured me that the disinherited lord's column in 'Razzle-Dazzle' had disappeared, which was all well and good.

I had almost finished when the great detective lurched out of his room and, most unusually, headed for his fireside chair rather than his coffee and Mrs. Hudson's delicious breakfast. More than a little perturbed – this was akin to the Moon suddenly deciding that it would prefer to orbit Venus rather than Earth – I poured him his over-sweetened coffee and took it to his chair wherein he had slumped. He had got in after I had fallen asleep last night and viewing his wrecked form now, I could guess why. He looked absolutely terrible! 

Bloodshot blue eyes gazed remorsefully up at me.

“I was at Guilford's new hotel last night”, he whispered, his voice hoarse. “All those theories about a man's alcohol capacity being linked to body mass? Tommy-rot!”

I went and fetched him a plateful of bacon (yes, I had put half my rashers aside for him and no, that did not mean that I was 'whipped' thank you very much!) which he accepted with a weak smile, a smile that widened as I applied the ketchup for him.

“Randall is coming over today”, he said.

And there went my good day. Still at least I would miss the supercilious, overbearing, pompous and insufferable lounge-lizard. I might even mention his advent to our landlady; she had said that she needed some target practice for her pistol. Come to that, I had that spare box of ammunition.....

“I sense that you do not exactly like him”, Holmes said, shaking his head at me. Apparently the mind-reading thing worked even when he was only semi-functional, worse luck.

“He takes advantage of you”, I grunted. “I shall be writing in my room. With the door locked.”

“Your work progresses well?” he asked.

I nodded. 

“I have nearly completed the Brackhampton case”, I said, “then I have to edit it. I find that that takes longer than the actual writing; I am always finding something that needs changing or that could have been better expressed, and then something else that needs changing as a result, and so forth. It is like a set of dominoes....”

I stopped. He was looking disappointed for some reason. I knew that the kicked puppy look and my caving to whatever he asked was coming as sure as tomorrow, but he seemed so down that I could not have turned away for all the tea in China.

“What is it that I about to say yes to?” I asked resignedly.

“I was hoping that you might stay when he calls”, he said, looking piteously at me like I was the meanest mean doctor ever to think of saying no to some poor little helpless consulting detective (hah!). “I know that you do not like him but I am sure that he has another interesting case for us both.”

Again, I felt that silly little warm feeling at that 'us both'. 

“Besides”, he went on, “your presence annoys him so much!”

“So you just want me here to tease your brother?” I pouted. “Harrumph!”

“Of course not!” he protested.

I looked sharply at him. He took another mouthful of bacon and looked sheepish.

“Not completely?” he muttered giving me another piteous look.

I sighed. I was putty in this man's hands, damnation!

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He had of course been right. The scowl on Mr. Randall Holmes's face when I sat down at the table was almost worth putting up with the smarmy lounge-lizard. He clearly wanted to object but his brother had equally clearly made it plain that my presence was non-negotiable.

“This case only came to light by a fluke”, our unwelcome visitor began. “We have been very, very lucky. Even so, it may end very badly if we cannot stop what looks like another serial killer.”

I wondered at that 'what looks like'. Surely a serial killer was a serial killer?

“On the first of this month Miss Elizabeth Wakefield went to open up her mother's sweet-shop in the Strand”, he said. “They sell the very finest confectionery and have an excellent reputation. Upon unlocking the store she set things up and after a while went to the back office to make herself a cup of tea. There she found the dead body of her mother, Mrs. Dorothy Wakefield. She had been shot; it was later established that it must have happened around closing time the day before. Unfortunately Miss Wakefield had been staying with friends in Essex overnight so had not noticed her mother's absence from their Bayswater home, otherwise we would have been alerted sooner. From the state of her clothes the body had been dragged some distance, inferring that she had been shot in the store itself. The Strand is busy at almost any time of day so she could not have been outside.”

“The constable who initially attended the call was one Michael Finnigan, based at your friend LeStrade's station. It is not his area but he was walking to work when Miss Wakefield charged out on the pavement screaming 'murder!'. The investigation passed out of his hands of course but he did have to write a report, stating what he had found when he had looked round the place. One odd thing stuck in his memory and it was a damn good thing that it did.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“There was set of cards arrayed out for a game of patience on the table”, our visitor said. “Finnigan was sharp; he spotted something wrong with the way the cards looked and checked them. He found that the fours had been removed and were placed in a single pile to one side. On top was the four of hearts, and on the back of it someone had written a list of names. He noted them down; 'Alex, Beatty, Charlie, Dot'.”

Holmes tensed for some reason. I wondered why; there seemed nothing unusual about any of those names.

“It looked like just another murder”, Mr. Randall Holmes continued, “until I got a call from Sergeant Bristol down at a station in Brockley. Finnigan's cousin Henry West works at his station and last night he went there to pick him up as usual; they share a house but usually go for a drink before heading home. Although it is technically against the rules they discussed the cases they were on or had done recently, and West told Finnigan about a murder that had been reported that same day. The circumstances were pretty much the same, it turned out. They rushed back to Finnigan's station and told your LeStrade, who had the good sense to pass it on to me.”

 _Pompous ass_ , I thought. Holmes shot me a warning look. I managed not to roll my eyes but it was close.

“Was the second murder identical to the first?” Holmes asked pressing his long fingers together. His brother flipped open a notebook.

“Miss Louise Mainwaring was found dead at her house in Endwell Road at just after nine o' clock yesterday morning”, he said. “She was an unusual lady by all accounts. Her passion was gardening and she offered a complete gardening service for her customers. She would design, build and even maintain whatever garden her clients wanted. She charged for it and then some, but she had built up quite a client list. People will pay for good service, and the few customers we have tracked down all spoke very highly of her. Her middle name was Charlotte, by the way.”

“I am to take it that playing-cards were involved again?” Holmes asked. His brother nodded.

“The fours had been placed in a pile and this time the four of spades lay on the top”, he said. “It had exactly the same list of names on it as at the first murder. It was West's mention of that circumstance that twigged young Finnigan to what was happening; he himself did not want to say anything – I suppose because they had broken the rules by discussing cases outside work – but his cousin insisted that they report it. This is bad.”

“Murder is always bad”, I said. They both looked at me.

“Randall is referring not just to the cards”, Holmes said, “but to the dates.”

I stared in confusion.

“What major event is due in three weeks' time, doctor?” our unwelcome guest snapped.

I suddenly saw what he was driving at. My stomach plummeted.

“Her Majesty!” I gasped. Our visitor nodded.

“Assuming that Her Majesty, whom we know was christened Alexandrina, is the Four of Diamonds – and she does have a crown with four prominent stones in it – then if 'the 'Four of Clubs', Beatty, is set to be murdered six days from now, we have someone who could cause a complete panic in the city. We may even have to cancel all Her Majesty's public appearances.”

“I doubt that she will agree to that”, Holmes observed. “Assassination attempts are par for the course when it comes to royalty and she has survived her fair share of them. She may still be grieving her lost husband but she will not shirk from meeting her faithful public.”

_(My friend was of course right. What would turn out to be the last of eight attempts on the Queen's life had occurred only five years back. Most of them had been from people suffering from some form of mental instability, but there were suspicions that some of the earlier ones had been at the instigation or at the very least with the knowledge of her uncle Ernest Augustus, King of Hanover, who might have re-united our two countries had the Queen died without issue. He had become king in 1837 because Hanover's Salic Law had prevented female succession and had died in 1851, his son and successor George the Fifth losing the throne when Prussia had overrun his kingdom in 1866 to form the German Empire. He died in 1878; his son Ernest was made Duke of Cumberland but lost his titles for siding with Germany in the Great War)._

“I would like for you to find this 'Beatty'”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “Preferably before she – and more importantly, our Queen - meets a bad end.”

“It is all rather _do you not think?” Holmes said thoughtfully. “Like the Speckled Band case. I wonder if we have someone else who is more interested in creating panic than killing people.”_

_“With Her Majesty's life on the line, that us not a risk we are prepared to take!” his brother said firmly. “You have to help, Sher!”_

_Holmes glared at him for using the hated nickname. His brother paled. I managed to suppress a snigger and wondered if there might yet be blood._

_I got another disapproving look. All right, 'wondered' as in 'desperately hoped'._

_“Sherlock”, the nuisance corrected quickly. I did not smile at his slight shudder._

_“If the person behind these crimes wished merely to assassinate Her Majesty then they could easily strike at a time and place of their choosing”, Holmes said, shaking his head at me for some inexplicable reason. “This ties them to a single day, and even though she will be processing through London the security will be formidable. The motives behind the crimes are, I think, the key.”_

_“I do not care what the bastard's motives are”, his brother said curtly. “I just want him stopped.”_

_“Or her”, I muttered._

_“'She' would have to be very muscular, then”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “The late Mrs. Wakefield was a large woman and after she was shot, she was dragged up a short flight of stairs as well as some distance along a corridor.”_

_“I should like to see Mrs. Wakefield's shop”, Holmes said. “Is that possible?”_

_“Her daughter is running the place now so that should not be a problem”, his brother said. “Will you go today?”_

_“Yes”, Holmes said. “You will see if you can find 'the Four of Clubs' while Watson and I will go down the Strand.”_

_I did not smile at his brother's visible annoyance at my inclusion in matters._

_Holmes looked at me again. Come on, I did not smile _that_ much! _

_And he could stop shaking his head like that as well!_

__

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We lunched at my favourite little restaurant in Trafalgar Square – I only had time for one piece of their heavenly triple chocolate cake although I had to finish Holmes's because he found it too rich - and were walking down to the confectionery shop when I stopped.

“Look!” I said excitedly pointing across the road. 

Holmes followed my arm but only looked at me in confusion.

“The sporting wear shop!” I said. “'Clubs' could refer to golf!”

“Very good doctor”, my friend smiled. “We shall send a message to Randall to tell him to investigate that possibility. We are here.”

The 'Chocolate House' was a small but tidy little shop and I had to admit that the display of chocolaty goodness in the window was making me hungry. It was hard to believe that we had known of chocolate as a drink for hundreds of years yet the first plain chocolate bar had only appeared in the middle of this century and a milk chocolate version the year after I had met my friend, barely a decade ago. Our scientists really needed to get their priorities right.

To my surprise Holmes did not enter the shop but stood back and looked thoughtfully at the doorway for some time. It was directly next to the entrance to the tobacconist's next door and it was into that shop that he led me. A young blond fellow looked up from cleaning the counter as he approached; I thought that he looked a little guilty but then most people did around my friend. Often with good reason.

“Mr. Drake Honeydew?” my friend asked politely.

“No”, the fellow said, “I am his son, Dorian. How may I be of service, sir?”

“I am investigating the tragic murder of Mrs. Wakefield”, Holmes said. “Were either you or your father here on the evening in question?”

The man scratched his chin in thought.

“I was here”, he said. “But the Wakefields keep - kept to themselves pretty much.”

Holmes smiled lazily and leaned across the counter. The fellow visibly shook.

“Mr. Honeydew”, he said quietly, “it really would behove you to tell me the _whole_ truth. I can assure you that the Metropolitan Police Service does not take kindly to people who withhold information about a crime, for whatever reason.”

The man had gone so pale that I feared he was going to faint, and I moved quickly forward. He grasped the counter for support.

“Sir.....”

“It is Miss Wakefield's locket that you are wearing, is it not?” Holmes said gently. “Mr. Honeydew, if you tell us all then I can ensure that the information reaches the right people and that you” - he looked over Mr. Honeydew's shoulder for some reason - “ _and others_ do not suffer. Otherwise I shall be obliged to inform the local police of your forgetfulness. I doubt given the gravity of the matter that they would be all that understanding.”

The fellow swallowed hard then pulled himself together and came round to the door. He flipped the sign over to 'Closed' and shut the blinds; fortunately the light from the large front window coming over the partition kept the room from being dark. He returned to his place behind the counter and eyed us warily.

“Her mother caught me in the back garden just after closing”, he admitted. “She had never approved of my suit. We exchanged angry words; I doubt that anyone overheard us but I was probably the last person before her killer to see her alive.”

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you know if she had locked up by then?” he asked.

“Oh yes!” the tobacconist said fervently. “Her shop was broken into last year which was when she had the extra security gate fitted at the front. My father had his installed by the same firm at the same time; I heard her close and lock hers just after closing.”

“Perhaps someone could have gained access through the back?” Holmes asked.

“I do not think so”, he said. “After our.... encounter I spent the next two hours working in the garden. There is only a low fence between us and I am sure that I would have seen anyone entering the house that way.”

Holmes nodded at that.

“I shall tell the police that you only remembered this when I questioned you”, he said reassuringly. “Doctor Watson and I must be on our way. Good-day, sir.”

We left the tobacconist and I was not surprised when Holmes did indeed go straight into the confectioner's. But instead of asking Miss Wakefield anything he just made several chocolate purchases; indeed so many that he decided to have them delivered. I followed him out of the shop in puzzlement.

“You did not ask her any questions”, I observed. “How did you know that he was seeing the lady?” 

“There was a distinct aroma of lavender perfume in his shop”, he said, “which I noted was also worn by the lady. Plus the door to the back was very slightly open. I noticed when we were outside the shop that there were two shadows inside not one so hesitated a few moments to allow her to make her escape. I also observed that there was a pattern in the dust heading towards the door, one typically made by a lady's dress when she moves in a hurry. It would have been both pointless and cruel to question her, as I can see why they would have been reticent about admitting their relationship.”

“So why did you go in, then?” I asked. He smiled.

“We have to have a _full_ understanding of the matter at hand”, he said sententiously. “But as I do not particularly like chocolate, I thought that you might sample the various things on offer at the shop. For detective purposes, _of course!”_.

I smiled at that. He was so good to me!

“At least we know a little more about the time of Mrs. Wakefield's death”, I said.

“We know much more than that”, he said gravely.

“How so?” I asked.

“Mrs. Wakefield had to have known her killer”, he said. “Remember, Mr. Honeydew said she was very security-conscious which fits with what we know of her, yet she must have admitted someone through that locked gate, _after_ closing time. Presumably the killer locked the gate when he left and threw the keys away, most likely into the Thames.”

“What about our second victim, Miss Mainwaring?” I asked.

“Sergeant Bristol is sending Constable West to see us before he starts work first thing tomorrow”, Holmes said. “He says that his man keeps excellent records. We shall see.”

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There is a saying that you know you are getting old when policemen start to look too young to do their job. I was only thirty-five but Constable Henry West looked like he was barely out of school. He was clearly nervous about meeting us but he had brought his notebook with him and was ready to share what he knew.

“A boy brought a message into the station at just before nine that morning”, he began.

“Who from?” Holmes interrupted.

“He said 'a man with a red face' – I know, sir – knocked on his door and asked if someone could take an urgent message to the local police station as something awful had happened at Number Eight”, he said. “Constable Williams on duty took down what description he could but all the boy could remember was that the man who spoke to him was youngish, had hair as red as his face and 'smelled funny'. Like a paint factory, the boy said. The man gave him sixpence for the job which is well over the going rate, but he did say that it was urgent.”

“I presume that no-one answering that description emerged later in the case?” Holmes asked. The policeman shook his head.

“Miss Mainwaring's brother's all have dark hair, so no sir. More importantly the boy described the man as thin, which none of the brothers are. They are still checking their alibis but I do not see anything happening there. I ran to the house....”

“I am sorry to keep interrupting you, constable”, Holmes said, “but were you the first officer to reach the murder scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

Holmes frowned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The police station is five streets away from Mrs. Mainwaring's house”, Holmes said. “Randall sent me a map of the area. Two constables patrol there and anyone wishing to summon the police would surely have first sent someone to find one of them.”

“I did think that myself, sir”, Constable West said, “and I took the precaution of asking both Yorke and Alan if they saw anything. Yorke was some distance away but Alan was in the next street and there was an alleyway that he could have easily cut through. If this man had blown a whistle or even yelled, he would have been there soon enough.”

“We may assume therefore that whoever sent the boy wanted time to remove themselves from the area”, Holmes said. “So far so good. Proceed with your fascinating tale, constable.”

“I reached the house at a little before a quarter past nine”, the constable said. “The town hall clock was striking as I opened the front gate. The front door was closed but unlocked so I went in and after a short search found the dead lady in the lounge. She had been shot once, at close range and probably less than half an hour before my arrival.”

“Are you certain?” Holmes asked.

“Quite, sir. I.... um, I enjoy detective fiction and particularly the tales of your good self. Not in your stories but I read once that shooting someone close in leaves a scorch mark, which does not happen at a distance. Miss Mainwaring knew her attacker as she admitted him to the house; the door had not been forced or anything. There was no sign of her body having been moved after death, and the wound had only just stopped bleeding.”

“You have done well, constable”, Holmes praised. “Anything else?”

The policeman hesitated.

“It may be nothing, sir”, he said, “but there was a fire going in the lounge.”

“So?” I asked. Holmes tutted at me.

“Watson, the weather all last week was exceptionally warm for the time of year”, he said. “Miss Mainwaring would have no need of a fire, or at least not for warmth. _Very_ observant of you to spot that, constable. What about servants?”

“Miss Mainwaring lived alone except for a housemaid, Mavis Wright”, the constable said. “She lives just around the corner, less than five minutes away. That was the other odd thing; she did not lay the fire which must mean that either Miss Mainwaring or her killer did. Poor girl had gone home for an hour or so to check on her invalid mother and cook her dinner; she said her mistress was very good and did not mind her 'breaking her day' provided all her tasks were done before she finally left. She arrived back ten minutes after I got there, and fainted in the hall when I told her what had happened.”

“Was she able to tell you whether Miss Mainwaring was in the habit of admitting people to her house?” Holmes asked.

“She said most definitely not”, the constable said firmly. “Her employer valued her independence and there had been a break-in further down the street a few months back. One other thing; she had recently taken on some workers for her business and had sold shares in her business to her brothers, although she still owned more than half of it. There does not seem motive for anyone except a madman.”

 _“Cui bono?”_ I muttered.

The constable looked at me in confusion.

“Who benefits?” I translated. His face cleared. 

“No-one much”, he said. “I spoke with her lawyer Mr. Edwards, and he told me the contents of her will as it will be in the papers after the funeral. She left Mavis Wright a small legacy but now the girl is now out of a job although Mr. Edward, the eldest of the brothers, did say that he would write her a reference given the circumstances. That was good of him; people often forget about the small fry in cases like this. Mrs. Mainwaring's business is split equally between her brothers though as it was pretty much just her I doubt it is worth much. Her house and moneys all go to the local cats' home; Mavis Wright said that she loved the creatures but could not have one herself as she was very allergic. One thing that might be relevant; she had told Mr. Edwards that no-one was to know about the will so maybe her brothers were expecting more. Of course when Mike told me about the playing-card in his case I saw the connection but did not want to say anything because... to be honest our sergeant doesn't like me as it is, and I was sure he would have used this as an excuse to have a go at me for breaking what he calls 'them protocols'.”

“We shall be sure to let him know that your actions are deserving of credit, not censure”, Holmes said. “You must take one of my cards and use it to contact me if you have any problems in that direction. Have you yourself any thoughts about whether or not there will be more murders?” he asked.

The policeman reddened.

“I got the thing about the royal connection, sir”, he said. “But finding a Beatrice with a connection to clubs in a city this size – it's surely impossible! It could be weapon clubs, golf clubs, sports clubs, gentlemen's clubs or Lord knows what. Also we don't know whether Beatrice is her first, middle or even her last name.”

“I agree”, my friend said as the constable took one of his cards. “Let us hope that Sergeant LeStrade can find something. Thank you for coming, constable.”

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Sergeant LeStrade found rather too much. He had brought a map of the city with red dots on each of the potential victims. It looked like it had had an outbreak of measles.

“This city is way too big!” he sighed. “We found seventy-one people – so far! - all with some club connection who could be the next victim, and we can't warn all of them or some will talk to the press. Then we'll have a major panic!”

“Which I suspect the victim wants”, Holmes muttered. “It may even be their main motive. We are missing something here, gentlemen. We have a murder in the Strand and one in Brockley. Apart from the number four and the playing-cards, is there any other connection?”

I looked at the heavily spotted map, and followed a line from the Strand down to Brockley.

“They are both on the South Eastern Railway, for their sins”, I observed. 

I did not think it a particularly astute observation, for that company was renowned at the time for is exceptionally poor service and on the few occasions that I journeyed into their part of London and I always strove to avoid them. Holmes however stared at me in astonishment, then pointed to two spots on the map. 

“Numbers thirteen and sixty-four”, he said quickly. “Who are they?”

LeStrade checked his list. 

“Sixty-four is Mrs. Beatrice Courland-Fourmile who works in a bakery in the Surrey Quays. Married with one young son, she and her husband are both members of a darts club at the local tavern, which is weak but it is a link. Thirteen is Mrs. Michaela Beatrice Bonaventura Hustings, née Greer, a young widow who lives in Bermondsey. Again a weak link but the doctor here could be right; her late husband used to play golf and she took over his club membership when he died in a train crash two years ago.”

Holmes sat back, a knowing smile on his face.

“LeStrade”, he said, “I think that we may be able to catch ourselves a killer.”

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As a doctor I make it a point not to let my personal feelings ever get the better of me. Or at least I try to when slappable lounge-lizards, Cornish fishermen, Irish doctors and leering molly-men are not anywhere in the vicinity. But from the first sight of Mrs. Michaela Hustings my good intentions promptly upped and disappeared out of the nearest window. I knew that her husband had died not so long ago but within moments it was clear both that she was looking to re-marry and that she considered Holmes to be the ideal candidate. The hungry way in which she looked at him while we introduced ourselves made me feel more than a little uneasy. Fortunately LeStrade was able to impress on her the need for secrecy (if not for any sense of decorum), and we were soon ensconced safely in her back room well away from her hungry dark eyes. 

“You are sure that you told no-one at the station about this?” Holmes asked.

LeStrade's eyes widened.

“You don't think one of my own men....” 

“Gossip is the fastest thing after light”, Holmes interrupted. “I would rather not take any chances as this may be our only chance to stop the fellow before an attack on Her Majesty.”

The policeman nodded his agreement.

“I sent that message you wanted to young West”, he said. “You were right,. When he went back the lad did remember one other thing about the fellow who talked to him, though I don't see how it helps your case at all.”

“His hair was wet, yet it had not been raining”, Holmes smiled.

I chuckled quietly to myself as LeStrade's jaw dropped. He stared hard at my friend but Holmes just shrugged and would say nothing (which was all well and good as it meant that someone else got annoyed by that for a change!). Instead we drew up a rota for sleeping as we could not chance that the killer would not strike during the night. 

I had the first watch and thankfully we were undisturbed. Holmes had brought us all sandwiches (and incredibly cake; I seriously thought his marriage problems might end in LeStrade proposing to him when he saw that!). Fortunately I was still working my way through the chocolate supplies that he had purchased from Miss Wakefield's shop, although I had to say that they did not seem to last long for some reason.

Three hours later I woke the sergeant and managed to get about a few hours' sleep myself before being shaken awake by my friend. From the weak light coming in through the thin curtains it was around dawn.

“Rise, doctor”, he whispered. “Someone is at the door.”

I reached for my revolver and readied myself. We could hear Mrs. Hustings opening the door to her visitor and from her tone she did not seem surprised. She followed the instructions that Holmes had given her and told her visitor that she would be back shortly but had to check her breakfast. She then hurried into our room (fortunately it was next to the kitchen) and we waited.

After what seemed like an eternity the visitor walked quietly down the hall and the door handle slowly turned. It was light outside but the room was poorly lit by the one window by which Mrs. Hustings was standing. I was hidden behind the screen watching through a small peep-hole that I had found, while Holmes was behind a dresser and LeStrade behind the open door into the kitchen. The visitor was male and wearing dark clothes but I could make out nothing more – until I saw the unmistakeable glint of a gun.

LeStrade stepped out from behind the door and the man turned to point his weapon at him only to have it dashed from his hand by Holmes's stick which came down on the intruder's wrist with a thwack. He groaned in pain and by the time he had recovered the sergeant had the cuffs on him. He struggled at first but the feel of my gun pressing into his chest soon quietened him. Mrs. Hustings turned on the light and we could finally see his face. LeStrade gasped in shock.

_“Finnigan?”_

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The sergeant quickly summoned a couple of local policeman and within half an hour his murderous colleague had been taken away. I was relieved it was all over, although uneasy again at the way that Mrs. Hustings all but draped herself over Holmes in gratitude. My friend seemed more than a little surprised at her over-eagerness and I frowned.

“What I want to know”, LeStrade said, “is how you knew that he would come here of all places.”

“Watson told me”, Holmes said, detaching himself (at last!) from the overly-effusive Mrs. Hustings. I stared at him in astonishment.

“I do not remember saying anything”, I said. 

“You correctly identified the link between the first two murders”, he said. “The first was in the Strand which adjoins onto Charing Cross railway station, while the second was in Brockley less than five minutes from a railway station also owned by the South Eastern Railway. That, plus the fact that we knew Michael Finnigan had his rooms in New Cross which is also served by that company suggested that he was involved. The railway offered a quick getaway in both cases and would have done so from this house as well. This and Mrs. Courland-Fourmile's houses were the only ones close to the South Eastern Railway's main line; her link to clubs was the weaker one but I am glad that we had men there in case.”

“There were two other small inconsistencies in what we were told. Both of which pointed towards him. He claimed that his cousin Mr. West persuaded him to report the story, yet the latter told us that he was reluctant so to do because he feared for his job. Then there was the fact that the villain would have had to have detoured slightly on his way to his station as well as have exited Charing Croiss Station on the far side from where the New Cross train gets in. Both small things, but they indicated a degree of untruthfulness that was suggestive.”

“I would speculate that Constable Finnigan is a covert supporter of Irish independence, several of whose fringe elements have threatened to disrupt the forthcoming Jubilee celebrations. The murders were, much as I had feared, merely incidental to the end of causing chaos and disruption. I am sure that had he been successful here then the story of the playing-card serial murderer and the implication that Her Majesty might be the next target would have been leaked to the press. The whole ceremony would likely have had to have been cancelled, or even if it had gone ahead many would have stayed away in fear.”

“The first murder is easy. Mrs. Wakefield admits a policeman into her shop because who would suspect an officer of the law? Mr. Honeydew told us how worried she was about security so clearly the person that she admitted – because there was no forced entry – had to have been someone she at least thought that she could trust if not someone she knew.”

“The second murder is more difficult because he needs it to be discovered but not too soon. I suspect that he actually planned it first as he knew that Miss Mainwaring used her gardening skills to make herbal preparations, one of which he could use to dye his hair and create a disguise.”

“That was why his hair was wet!” I exclaimed. Holmes nodded.

“Also the smell, if you remember”, he said. “The fire's main purpose was to confuse us over the time of death, as it would delay the cooling process _post mortem_ , but it had the added bonus of suggesting that something may have been destroyed, otherwise why light one on such a warm day? He sends the boy to the police station some streets away and then has time to hurry to the railway station where he takes the train home and washes the colour out of his hair. He then arranges to meet with his cousin and they naturally discuss work which means that the connection between the murders comes out. He is ostensibly as unsure as his cousin as to whether to admit that they have been breaking the blessed protocols, but eventually agrees that considering the import of the matter they should alert the authorities of the link between the cases, which was his intention all along.”

“You are just _wonderful_ , Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hustings gushed surging towards him. “I shall _never_ be able to repay you!”

He avoided being groped this time and dodged behind LeStrade before grasping his coat. I may or may not have accidentally moved into the harridan's way as she tried to reach him (I did).

“Come, Watson”, Holmes said as the sergeant left the room. “We should return to Baker Street.”

It would have been totally infantile of me to stick my tongue out at Mrs. Hustings as we left the room and completely beneath a man of my position. Oh well.

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Ii was shortly after we reached our rooms in Baker Street that I observed my friend moving stiffly.

“What is wrong?” I asked anxiously.

“I think I may have pulled a muscle while striking his gun away”, he said, twitching uncomfortably. “I am sure that it will pass.”

“I have some unguent for pulls”, I offered. “Would you like me to put some on you?”

He smiled his genuine smile.

“Thank you, doctor”, he said.

We went upstairs and he took off his shirt and vest before sitting astride one of the chairs. I fetched the unguent and began applying it.

“Cold!” he muttered.

“It soon warms up”, I said pressing the unguent firmly into his broad back. For such a slender man he was surprisingly muscled. “Though I doubt it will ever get as hot as that Mrs. Hustings was today. She was all over you!”

“More was the pity”, he sighed, before letting out a pleasurable groan. “Oh, that is _good!”_

I applied a little more pressure and leaning in I could smell the ivory soap that he used every morning. He sighed contentedly.

“John”, he muttered.

He had used my Christian name. That was unusual.

“Yes?” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

“Thank you.”

“I am a doctor”, I smiled as I worked the unguent into his back. “And your friend.”

Yes I was his friend. And that was enough for me.

It was.

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	8. Case 117: The Adventure Of The King Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. A man is killed while wearing the wrong scarf, someone 'watches the birds', and the case ends with Watson definitely not in tears. And also definitely not hugging his friend.  
> It was a manly embrace!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as a matter raised by a Jew pedlar, and as one of the cases in which Holmes helped out Inspector Macdonald.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I have always admired Holmes for the way in which he listened to all cases brought before him and did not allow the appearance or social status of the potential client influence him in any way, shape or form. But I felt that today was really pushing it!

The personage sat in the fireside chair at Baker Street was by any appearance a mess! I had thought at first that some Jew pedlar had managed to charm his way past Mrs. Hudson, which when I looked back at it was about as likely as hell freezing over - more than one salesman had learned the hard way about that pistol! - but physical untidiness apart this man just looked... well, a mess. 

Which once again demonstrated that my observational skills were pretty much on a par with my detective abilities. Par being the golfing term for zero.

“What service does one of the most successful pawnbrokers in Old London Town require of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” my friend asked politely. 

“I see that you know of me, Mr. Holmes”, our visitor said, sounding a little surprised. “How, may I ask? I do not exactly put myself out in society.”

I was not going to think that his appearance told even me that. I considered risking a small smile but Holmes was already shooting me the warning look. I settled for a mild scowl (it was so not a pout) at his omniscience.

“Mr. Greystoke”, Holmes smiled, “it is my business to know everyone who makes this city of ours function. In my line of work it pays to avoid surprises, as unpleasant ones can sometimes be fatal. But to answer your specific question I have had more than one set of dealings with the fabled Queen Molly, and she has spoken most highly of you and your philanthropy.”

I remembered the Queen of the.... Mendicants (I could almost _see_ those sugar-tongs being shaken warningly in my direction!), ruling her rag-tag empire from a flower-shop in the East End. My only encounter with her thus far had been in the de Braose case but I knew that Holmes had seen her over other matters as well. There was little hidden from her watchful 'subjects'.

“I value such royal patronage”, our visitor said politely. “I will be brief because as you know, time is money. Although I am sure that your own intelligence networks match or possibly even exceed my own, you may not know that there is a connection between us.”

An untimely memory of a recent 'before and after' advertisement that I had seen in a magazine for gentlemen's razors chose that moment to wander unannounced into my mind. This fellow had reminded me of the old Holmes (which I still sort of missed) before his improved appearance for reasons I still knew not. I coughed and reached for a glass of water; Holmes glared at me with the sort of look that said there would most definitely be Words later. I gulped down some water, not blushing all the while.

“My niece Ruth is married to one Mr. Alexander Macdonald”, our visitor said, “who is nephew to Inspector Fraser Macdonald and, I note, a man who has just lost his wife of many years. He is off work now as a result.”

_(One is not supposed to speak ill of the dead, I know, but in this case I feel that an exception might be made. Both Gregson and LeStrade had spoken of their relief at this dreadful woman's passing. She and the inspector had as I have mentioned before been forced into an arranged marriage when he had been barely eighteen; his father had planned a double marriage with two co-heiresses but the inspector's elder brother Andrew had frustrated his end of the scheme by fleeing from Cumberland to Warwickshire and marrying a lady there whom he had met while she had been on holiday in his home county. Our friends' superior had paid a heavy price for his brother's escape; two decades married to a female – I cannot possibly use the term 'lady' – who as of late had been increasingly and openly unfaithful._

_Ironically it had been an act of kindness on the inspector's part which had ended his wife's miserable existence. She had wanted to move one of her lovers into their spare room and he had taken advantage of the fact that a new constable at his station, a young fellow of part-Red Indian extraction called Mr. Chatton Smith, had faced a considerable increase in his rent. The inspector had invited the fellow to move in, frustrating his wife's machinations. Mr. Smith was known to me as Holmes had helped him secure his position as a constable only recently, and I knew that my friend thought very highly of the slight young fellow. Mrs. Macdonald had almost inevitably made a play for her new lodger – he was only eighteen, damnation! – and when he had rejected her, she had gone on a wild weekend out in London during which she had caught something horrible and died. It had in a way been fortunate that Constable Smith knew Sherlock; he had asked for me to attend and I had been able to cover up the drugs that she had taken during her fatal last fling. The fallout from all this would provide the substance for several later cases of ours, which is why I am mentioning it all here)._

“Alexander is a constable in the Warwickshire Constabulary”, our guest continued, “based in the village of Long Compton close to the Oxfordshire border, and he recently encountered a case which had one very peculiar element to it. Indeed had he not been of the Scots culture he would not have noticed the minor inconsistency in what had otherwise seemed a straightforward case. I know that the death in question did not reach the London papers although there were some suspicious circumstances around it. It happened last week, the victim being a local landowner called Lord Broadstone. He owned a fair-sized property at the southern end of the village, at the bottom of a steep hill. I went there myself on one occasion a couple of years for the wedding; it is a most charming area.”

“Alexander is very unlike his uncle; one would never suspect they were blood. The boy – he is nineteen so I suppose that I should not call him that, although at my age so many seem young - gives the impression of being slow to the point of imbecility, something that more than one of the local ne'er-do-wells have found out the hard way is definitely not the case. I think that it would be best if he were to give you the precise details of the case but I will tell you why he thought it so strange as I know that it is sometimes the _outré_ elements in a case that appeal to you. It concerned two woollen scarves.”

I looked up from my notes in surprise.

“Scarves”, Holmes said calmly as if neckwear somehow featured regularly in our cases (it did not). 

“Petronella, Lord Broadstone's housekeeper and a most formidable lady, told Alexander that two weeks prior to his demise her master had ordered a new scarf from a high-end shop here in London”, our guest said. “He was extremely proud of his Scots heritage and even flew the saltire on the flagpole in his garden. The scarf was a hand-made one in his ancestral clan colours; coincidentally he was a Macdonald through his late mother. However, when it had arrived he had been most annoyed as it turned out to be the wrong one.”

“How did they manage that?” I asked.

“Most probably a misunderstanding”, Holmes said. “The Macdonalds were a large clan and had several groupings scattered across the Highlands each with their own distinctive tartan. Plus there would be a general clan tartan and a dress tartan as well. One supposes either that the instructions were unclear or they were just misread.”

_(Although it did not come up in this case I would later find out that my friend too had a connection to this great clan, and was therefore a very distant cousin to both the inspector and his nephew)._

“I see that you are well-versed in matters Caledonian”, our guest smiled. “Lord Broadstone quite rightly refused to send the scarf back until the company had dispatched him the correct one. For some reason he did not inform anyone else in the family of the matter, which fact may or may not be important but I shall mention it anyway. The replacement scarf arrived on the day of his death and when my nephew was shown the body it bore the old scarf that he had hated so much.”

“Could he have put it on in error?” I wondered.

“Utterly impossible!” Holmes snorted. “A clansman wearing the wrong tartan would be like an Englishman waving a French flag during the Jubilee!”

I felt suitably chastened. Our guest nodded.

“The housekeeper did say that he kept them in the one drawer”, he admitted. “I wondered that myself, doctor, but Alexander told me that the original one was green with thin red bands while the replacement was different shades of blue in a broad check pattern. Very different, I would have said, and as a Macdonald himself Lord Broadstone would surely have known. Might you be prepared to consider the matter?”

“I would be delighted, sir”, Holmes said.

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“It all sounds very little to go on”, I said. “A man wears the wrong scarf and dies. Men have been killed for less I suppose, but this seems bizarre.”

“Mr. Greystoke is, despite the appearance that you only narrowly forbore from commenting on, one of the richest men in the City”, Holmes said dryly (I blushed, if manfully). “If he can sense that something is wrong in far Warwickshire, then almost certainly something is very, very wrong!”

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The following day we visited Inspector Macdonald at his house in Euston. It was but a few months since he had obtained our help in the Allonby Case (The Adventure of the Slipshod Woman) but I do not think that I have ever seen a man so changed in such a short time. He was ill in bed and frankly looked like death warmed over, so we merely said that we had called to offer our condolences on his loss. I have to admit that his state surprised me somewhat given that his late wife had been.... her. 

The other thing that surprised me was that Constable Chatton Smith, who as I said knew Holmes. I remember having been surprised when my friend had said that he worked at his stepbrother's molly-houses – he certainly did not look his age, which I knew was one of Mr. Kerr's strict house rules – but Holmes had explained that the fellow was skilled with figures and worked as an accountant. He was aptly named as his Red Indian name meant 'eagle' and he had the facial features to match that.

I also remember that when I told Holmes about Constable Smith's change of address he had seemed oddly concerned, though he did not say why. It was only when I saw the boy – he may have looked a little older but he was in fact just eighteen, less than half the inspector's thirty-seven years – tending to the older man so lovingly that I wondered. The world is full of surprises.

The constable offered us coffee and we sat down for a brief talk. I thought (but obviously did not say) that he looked almost as bad as his landlord.

“I am glad you did not disturb poor Fray with whatever brought you here”, he said. “He is heartbroken over his wife's death. She.....”

He frowned, seeming to be looking for the right words.

“She was, I think, the reason he was the way he became”, he said at last. “Theirs was an arranged marriage so there was never any love in it, and she criticized each and every thing he did. That was why he worked every hour he could at the station; he hated coming home, especially when she started bringing other men to the house. It was also how he kept the physique that so many admired; he would often head off to the gymnasium or the baths to delay coming home. I know that I can tell you this in confidence sirs, but it was made worse by the fact that they quarrelled just before she passed, so his last words to her were angry ones that can never be taken back.”

I felt sorry for the inspector, for all that I had had such a poor opinion of him in times past. Full two decades being married to someone he had hated and who had hated him back. Little wonder that he had been the way he was.

“It is good of you to be here for him”, Holmes said voicing my own thoughts. “The inspector has a nobility that few have seen; I doubt there are many who would put themselves out for him.”

“He stepped forward when the other coppers had a go at me because of my parentage”, the young man said. “I am sure that the doctor guessed the result.”

Holmes looked at me curiously. I blushed.

“They were responsible for that attack on you?” I asked. I had wondered at some of the bruising and his lack of interest over pushing the case, but I had thought it more because he had just started and did not wish to 'rock the boat'. Besides, I had had to respect his wishes when he had said that he had not wanted the matter pursued.

“They employed some cons they knew who set on me outside the station”, the constable said. “Fray found out and drummed each and every one of them out of the service. You know how he is; fairness for all and preference for none. I.....”

He stopped and blushed.

“I make no secret of my feelings for the noble character upstairs”, he said stiffly. “When I got my job I could not believe it when he offered for me to move in; if I had had any sense I would have said no but I accepted before I could think better of it. Then she..... I am sure you can guess what she did! Like Fray I had to work all the hours I could to avoid being alone with her, although that meant going to the gymnasium and baths with him, and....”

He stopped. I could see his point; Inspector Macdonald was not far short of being able to stand is as one of those strong men one sees at a circus, while for all his looks this fellow was a clear foot shorter and barely half the mass.

“We were here about the death of Lord Broadstone”, Holmes said gently. “The inspector's nephew Alexander is the constable there.”

“I thought that might be the reason for your call”, the constable said. “I read about the death in the 'Times' but did not of course mention it to Fray; he has enough on his plate as it is and mercifully he is not reading the newspaper just now so I was able to keep it from him. Thank you for having the decency not to tell the poor old fellow. If you are going there then it might be a good idea to have Alex meet you at Stratford.”

That surprised me. I had only briefly glanced at a map of the area but there had to have been at least twenty miles between Stratford and Long Compton, and I was sure there was a branch to Chipping Norton which was only a few miles south. The line between Oxford and Worcester itself was not that far away, although as I had mentioned in the Amateur Mendicant Case it was still very poorly-run. Perhaps that was the reason.

“We shall take your advice”, Holmes said.

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That Friday Holmes and I set off early to Paddington Station, having arranged that Constable Macdonald would indeed collect us from Stratford when we got there around lunch-time. I privately hoped that my friend would solve this case quickly and that I might then persuade him to go back to Shakespeare's birthplace which was a town that I had long wanted to visit. I feared however that I would not get the chance; Holmes would most likely travel back to London from Chipping Norton which I had found was indeed only a few miles south of our destination. We really should have gone there to start with even if it did involve travelling on the 'Old, Worse & Worse' Railway.

When we met Constable Macdonald I could see what Mr. Greystoke had meant about his appearance. He looked very much the village idiot that someone had mistakenly put in a policeman's uniform but from his conversation he was clearly very learnéd. He drove us out of Stratford and through some pleasant Warwickshire countryside; there was a tramway running parallel to the road for some distance but that apart it probably looked much as it had done in the great writer's day. 

As we travelled, our guide offered another reason as to why we had gone on such a roundabout route to his village.

“I dare say that you in particular, Mr. Holmes, appreciate just how parochial some constabularies are”, he said.

That was true. Holmes had had a minor case some time back, one that had straddled the border between the City of London and Metropolitan Constabularies and getting the two to co-operate had been a Herculean task, one that fortunately he had proven equal to. Some policemen (and the upper ranks were even worse!) seemed to find it difficult to remember that they were all supposed to be on the same side.

“The victim died near the King Stone south of the village”, our host continued. “It is part of a set of ancient stones; there is also a ring like a small Stonehenge and a sort of tomb thing nearby. The problem is it the border with Oxfordshire is the road just a few yards away – both ring and tomb are the far side of it - and the lads in Chipping Norton think that it should be their case. Especially as they are a much larger station and one of the alibis in the case was set there.”

So that had been why we had not gone through Chipping Norton. Despite the alleged backwardness of some country areas the one certainty was that the arrival of a famous consulting detective to such an area would be around the place in hours and of course the local constabulary would not be pleased. Honestly, some people!

“Please tell us about the victim”, Holmes said, nodding for some reason.

“Angus, Lord Broadstone”, the constable said. “In his early seventies and in moderate health; he walked out most days except when the weather was too bad. The climb to the stones is steep; I was a bit surprised that he had attempted it given that there were easier walks in the area and there was mist on the hill that day, but then he was that kind of man. Stubborn to the last.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

“Doctor Charing said heart attack”, the constable said, sounding somewhat dubious. “I am not so sure especially given the fact he was wearing that damn scarf. He was fiercely proud of his Scots heritage and there was no way he would have been seen dead in the thing!”

“Evidently he was seen dead in it”, Holmes said dryly. “So, _cui bono?_ Who stood to gain by the man's death?”

“Title and estate goes to his younger brother Mr. Malcolm Sewell”, the constable said. “Considerably younger as he's just turned fifty; their mother had eleven children of whom they were the eldest and second youngest. A sickly lot though; only three it to adulthood. The other one was a daughter who went off to Newfoundland, I think.”

“Who is next in line after Mr. Malcolm?” Holmes asked.

“He has three sons of his own”, the constable said. “Nice regular names but a mixed bag to say the least. The eldest one is Constantine; pompous and one of those fellows who is just a bit too keen to inherit I think, wishing the older generation would move on and make room for something better. Or at least him. I have a feeling that his dear old dad would like to disinherit him but although he could stop him getting the title he would still get the estate; legal whatnot, I suppose. The second son Balfour is married to Doctor Charing's daughter Nancy with a son of his own, and the third Augustus is married to a Shipston girl and lives up there, but with no children as yet.”

I remembered that Shipston-on-Stour had been a small and rather attractive town that we had just come through. A sign there had said that Stratford was ten miles back so it had to be about halfway to our destination. Quite close, then.

“Is Mr. Constantine not married?” I asked. The constable grinned for some reason.

“He's engaged to Miss Audrey Keith from Cherington, which is about five miles north of the village”, the constable said. “Scary young lady; she's likely already made plans for exactly what he will and will not be allowed to do after their marriage. What do you think, sirs?”

“It all seems fairly obvious”, Holmes said to my astonishment. “I suppose that proving it will be a little problematic but then that is what I am here for.”

We both stared at him.

“Obvious, sir?” the constable asked sounding even more dubious.

“Of course”, Holmes said. “I think that I would like to see where the murder took place if that is possible.”

“I thought to call in at the Red Lion for coffee first, sir”, the constable said. “But if you'd rather.....”

My friend gave him a look. I smiled; this policeman had actually thought to stand between Holmes and coffee. There might well be a second murder if he was not careful!

“The Red Lion it is”, our host smiled.

Holmes looked sharply at me as well but I just smiled innocently. As if I would make fun of his caffeine addiction. Maybe later....

Now he was shaking his head at me! Damnation!

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Long Compton turned out to be a pleasant village with a lovely old church and as mentioned the single pub. I did not like the coffee at the Red Lion at all – I half-expected my spoon to dissolve in it; it was that strong – but of course Holmes loved it so drank mine as well (I suppose that that was fair as I very occasionally finished the odd slice of chocolate cake for him). Our consulting detective having been safely re-caffeinated we set out to the scene of the murder.

“Is there some sort of legend surrounding these stones?” I asked as we looked at a single standing stone that, I felt, was tilted over at a rather precarious angle. On the Oxfordshire side of the road was the tomb and the stone ring but the King Stone dominated the hillside, looking over the long descent back down to the village far below.

Far, far below. I pointedly looked the other way.

“Folks say that back in the Dark Ages a warlord, his soldiers and some hired mercenaries came this way”, the constable said. “The warlord went through the village and met a witch who told him that if he could go and look down upon the village from this hill he'd become a king of England. He sent his soldiers and mercenaries up here first – caution, I suppose - then when nothing happened he rushed up after them, but before he could look down she changed them all to stone.”

“Bit tough on his men”, I observed, refraining from pointing out that there had been no 'England' at that time.

“They so the story goes had been plotting against him”, the constable said. “She then changed herself into a tree; Lord alone knows why! The King used to be bigger but sadly we get a lot of idiots come see him who want to take away a 'royal souvenir'.”

Holmes was looking around thoughtfully.

“I think that we need to see Doctor Charing”, he said. “I have a feeling that he may be able to take us an important step forward towards proving this matter.”

 _At least we would be off this blasted hill,_ I thought. We headed back to the cart.

“Were there any witnesses to the victim's final walk?” Holmes asked as we drove off. The constable thought about that.

“None that came forward”, he said. “Though you might ask old Peggy Woolworth. She's the nosiest cat in the whole village!”

“We should detour and see her then”, Holmes said to the surprise of both of us. “I recall you said that the good doctor lives in Whichford which I know is to the north of here, so it would be on our way.”

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Unfortunately Miss Peggy Woolworth – think twice the size of the unmissed Mrs. Hustings but with the same predatory look - was one of those large ladies who with one glance at Holmes was clearly thinking marriage. _As if!_

“Yes, I saw poor Gus heading up towards the Stones”, she said sending yet another simper at Holmes (really, it was as if he had some sort of invisible banner above his head that flashed the words 'single and available'!). “Silly man, I thought. Even with that scarf he must have been freezing.”

“How could you see his scarf?” I asked suspiciously. The track up the hill out of the village was a good hundred yards from her cottage.

“Bird-watching is a hobby of mine, doctor”, she beamed. “I have a most excellent set of binoculars.”

 _Nosy old bat,_ I thought uncharitably. _And she could stop simpering at my... at Holmes as well!_

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Doctor William Charing was an affable grey-haired fellow in his fifties and he welcomed us to his Whichford home. He seemed surprised at our involvement in the death of Lord Broadstone but answered our questions readily enough.

“I was there when Mr. Malcolm raised the alarm because his brother did not come home from his walk”, he said. “I remember Constantine being quite dismissive about it, saying that his uncle had most likely just fancied a longer walk. Unfortunately he was proven wrong; we found the body quite quickly.”

“I would have liked to have had my friend look at the body”, Holmes said ruefully. “But I suppose that he has been buried by this time.”

“Actually no”, the doctor said. “My daughter and son-in-law had to leave for Scotland the day after the death – her sister, my elder daughter, was taken ill - and they only returned home today. Lord Broadstone's funeral is set for tomorrow.”

“Where is the body?” Holmes asked urgently.

“In the police station”, Constable Macdonald answered, much to the surprise of both of us. “What with all the talk surrounding his death I thought it better to keep him there; we have a cold room out the back and it's secure enough. Mrs. Ives who 'does' for these parts has made him decent.”

“You have examined him?” Holmes asked the doctor. 

“I did a basic examination and found nothing untoward”, he said. 

“What about his clothes?” Holmes pressed. 

“He has been dressed in his best clothes and the original ones were returned to his family”, the doctor answered, looking more than a little vexed at the continued questioning.

Holmes sat back and pressed his long fingers together. 

“Constable”, he said at last, “you know the Broadstone household. Who in your opinion is the most reliable member of the serving staff.”

“Jude, sir”, the policeman answered without hesitation. “The late Lord Broadstone's valet. Young for his post but absolutely trustworthy. He found old Mr. Parks's wallet with five pounds† in it when he lost it in the village last year and returned it to him.”

“I wish you to ask this Jude to attend us at the station”, Holmes said carefully, “and it would greatly help our cause if he could bring a certain item along with him. Then for you to maybe look the other way while Watson here examines the late victim.”

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I sighed to myself as I cleaned up after attending the late Lord Broadstone. One of these days, I was sure, Holmes was going to be wrong about something. Law of averages. It had to happen.

Probably.

I was getting delusional in my.... early middle age. _And how could I hear him smirking through the damn door?_

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I thought when we met him that Mr. Harry Jude was everything an English valet should be. He was in his early thirties, walked bolt upright and had an air of openness and honesty about him.

 _So do many criminals_ , a voice at the back of my mind pointed out. I was getting cynical in my... early middle age.

“I would like to start”, Holmes said smiling for some reason, “with a somewhat personal question if I may. Did you actually _like_ your late employer?”

That clearly surprised the fellow. He hesitated for a moment.

“Be assured that nothing you say will be repeated outside these four walls”, I reassured him. _Unless Miss Woolworth is outside with a glass to the wall,_ I added silently, 'missing' the sharp look from a certain someone.

“His Lordship could be difficult when the mood took him”, the valet conceded, “but he was always a _fair_ master. I had to go to London one time to see my mother who was very unwell; he not only paid my fare but also granted me paid leave and said it was all right if I had to stay a bit longer. That was most kind of him.”

That was very true, I had to concede. Few masters would have gone that far. 

“I thank you for bringing the item that I requested”, Holmes said extracting a pair of what looked like expensive walking-boots from a bag. “These belong to your late master's nephew Mr. Balfour?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“I also asked the constable to get you to find something out before you came down”, Holmes said. “Did you manage to do it?”

“I did, sir”, the valet said. “It was as you said. The housekeeper confirmed that she had been asked to see to it personally as the item required hand-washing.”

“Then the case is complete”, Holmes smiled, sitting back. We all looked at him.

“May you be telling us who done it, sir?” the constable asked politely.

“This was a most cleverly planned and well-executed crime”, Holmes said. I knew that he enjoyed (and sometimes prolonged) these moments of revelation but in my opinion his genius earned him the right so to do. “I understand, constable, that the body of the victim was found at approximately four in the afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would draw your attention first to the weather that day”, Holmes said. “Although it is June, traditionally described as 'flaming', the weather the past few weeks has been unseasonably cold. In addition the place the body was found, on an exposed hilltop, was important in the crime. Because informative as your report undoubtedly was, constable, it contained an unintentional error. The examining doctor placed the time of death as between one and two o' clock in the afternoon. Miss Woolworth's evidence from around one would tend to suggest that the victim's heart gave way some time after the victim completed his arduous ascent. However that was not what actually happened.”

“The thing that I find curious is the statement of Mr. Constantine Sewell. We know because of the evidence of the staff at the house that, short of growing a pair of wings and flying there, _he_ could not have been out on the hill that afternoon. Seemingly he gained by the death as it moved him one stage closer to succeeding to the title but then his father might live for years, although I suppose there was always the chance of another death. It would not be the first time that I have seen someone kill once and then be prepared to wait for the hue and cry to die down before striking a second time.”

“You told me, constable, that Mr. Constantine claimed to have knocked on his uncle's study's door while he was working in there, and to have heard him call out not to be disturbed. That happened at about a quarter to one; Lord Broadstone would therefore have had to have positively sprinted to have reached the place where Miss Woolworth saw him only fifteen minutes later, which for a man his age seems unlikely.”

“I would like to put to you a different scenario one for which, I am happy to say, there is some evidence. Whether or not a court will accept it as proof to send someone to the drop, I am not so sure. Lord Broadstone was murdered by his brother Mr. Malcolm Sewell and the latter's son Mr. Balfour Sewell, some time around half-past twelve.”

We all stared at him in shock. He continued.

“As Doctor Watson has just confirmed the victim was stabbed in the neck by an exceptionally fine instrument. His killers then made their first mistake. Thinking to stop the bleeding they used the nearest item to hand, which was his recently arrived replacement - _and correct_ \- Clan Macdonald scarf. We know that Lord Broadstone did not alert his family as to the wrong scarf having been sent and that was to prove his killers' undoing; they merely supposed that he had ordered a second one for some reason. Mr. Malcolm Sewell then sets out for a walk wearing his brother's coat which he makes sure takes him along a path where the nosiest ca.... _a person who is a keen bird-watcher and has an excellent set of binoculars_ might just chance to see him.”

I smiled at the obviously intentional word-slip.

“Mr. Balfour Sewell removes his uncle's dead body to a cart where it will later be transported to the King Stone. He now needs to make sure that his uncle is 'seen' as still alive and locks himself in his victim's study. His only bad moment is when his elder brother most annoyingly knocks on the study door. Fortunately a decent impression of his now dead uncle keeps the latter at bay, and although his evidence seems to not quite fit it is likely that it will be either dismissed as an error in timings or perhaps even put down to the eldest son lying in an attempt to cover up his own criminality. Mr. Malcolm Sewell, wearing the first and therefore _wrong_ scarf, has already left disguised as the dead man on a path where he will be seen but not closely, and his son later drives the cart to the rendezvous point by the King Stone.”

Holmes turned over the boots.

“We all saw”, he said, “how the area around the stone had been recently laid with new stone chippings. I have made a study of such things and these particular chippings are from Staffordshire, so would not normally be encountered this far south. You will note that two small chipping fragments are wedged into the soles of these fine boots.”

We all looked. So they were. 

“Because it is such a cold day”, Holmes went on, “there is little danger that the time of death will be able to be easily fixed. Although it was his son-in-law who was involved, I am sure that the doctor himself was innocent. When I questioned him he admitted that he had initially been inclined to place the death between twelve and one except that you, constable, had told him that the man had been seen alive at one o' clock and given the time he must have taken to ascend the hill could not therefore have died until around a quarter past at the very earliest. He therefore placed the time of death somewhat later; the three hours before it was discovered and the extreme temperatures on the exposed hill made him think that he had been mistaken.”

“Some time around a quarter past one therefore the body of the victim is placed next to the King Stone by Mr. Balfour – the location you will note was _behind_ the stone from the village, shielding the wrongdoers from even the faintest chance someone might see anything. They were unable to use the scarf that they had used to stem the blood flow, so they simply gave the victim the scarf that as we were told 'he would not have been seen dead in'. Then the villains ride quickly to Chipping Norton. In that busy town they are seen in a local tavern still around the time when the murder is now reckoned to have taken place, over an hour after it truly had. They have an excellent alibi for a murder that they have themselves committed.”

We were all silent for a moment.

“May I ask about my question to the housekeeper, sir?” the valet asked at last.

“Of course”, Holmes smiled. “As I said the second or 'correct' scarf was used to staunch the relatively mild flow of blood from the wound. I would wager that Mr. Malcolm Sewell handed it to the housekeeper, saying something along the lines that he wanted to return it to the shop because of the unhappy memories that it evoked, although it would naturally have to be washed first. As far as the housekeeper knew that scarf had no connection with her master's death, so even when she saw the blood she would likely have put it down to a shaving nick. ”

“That is exactly what he told her, sir”, the valet said, looking at Holmes in awe.

“The only problem”, Holmes said, “will be getting a conviction. We are talking a capital offence here, and twelve good men and true usually only convict on certainties. Well, we shall see.”

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See we did. After consulting with Mr. Constantine Sewell, Holmes informed the fellow's father and brother of the case against them and said that he was putting the matter in the hands of the authorities one week from that day. Naturally both men immediately tried to sell as much of the estate as they could only to find that Holmes had forestalled them and that all their efforts were delayed (coincidentally for at least a week!). They then had the decency to flee the country for parts unknown, and there were not missed.

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We spent another night at the Red Lion after which I fully expected Holmes to head for Chipping Norton and a train back to his beloved London. But instead Constable Macdonald drove us all the way back to Stratford which seemed an avoidable delay as well as being an annoying reminder of what I was now to miss twice. 

We were passing through Shipston when he suddenly spoke.

“It was very good of you to speak to the chief-constable, sir.”

I looked at Holmes in surprise.

“What about?” I asked.

“He says that in thanks for my solving the case” - he glanced pointedly at my friend - “I can have a long weekend to go to London and see Uncle Fraser. I had no holiday left this year but now I can make sure he is all right. Although I am glad he has Chas now.”

“But not in the way in which the doctor is thinking”, said someone who was in severe danger of being pushed off a cart in rural south Warwickshire. “Constable Smith is far too honourable for any such behaviour, especially with a gentleman so recently bereaved. After the correct period of mourning however one can hope they find some happiness with each other.”

“Aunt Essie was no good for poor Uncle Fraser”, the constable said. “She hated him, and sorry though I am to say it I am glad she is gone. He always despised people in general but I hope that Chas can make him see the human race in a better light.”

He was silent the rest of the way to Stratford where he thanked us once more and said goodbye. I noticed my friend looking unusually thoughtful.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I assume too much about you at times”, he said ruefully, holding up his hand when I looked set to deny it. “No Watson, I really do. So when I knew we were coming up here and I remembered that you said that you would want to visit the birthplace of our greatest author for a few days I arranged with the surgery for some extra cover for you. We have a whole extra week here and can take a Sunday train home and....”

He stopped, mainly because in an arguably somewhat unmanly expression of gratitude I was hugging the living daylights out of him. What of it; the road behind us was empty and if anyone in the guest-house in front of us was looking out of the window – even if there was some nosy old bat 'bird-watching' – tough!

“Thank you”, I sniffed. “I... thank you.”

He patted me on the back and I let him go. I did not deserve this wonderful man but I was determined to hold onto him as long as I could. 

Even if my manliness was on the next train to Dover and headed out of the country!

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_Notes:_   
_† About £535 ($675) at 2020 prices._

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	9. Case 118: The Adventure Of The Uffa Poniard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. The English Fens are the setting for a cursed dagger that has been stolen. Can Holmes recover it and deal out justice on the unusual 'thief'?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of the Grice-Pattersons.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: The year after this case there was passed the Local Government Act (effective 1889), which amongst may changes removed most of the remaining exclaves and enclaves around the borders of England's counties. Partly because of that, the term 'exclave' has subsequently fallen into disuse. The difference is that an enclave is wholly surrounded by only one other administration (for example Dudley in Worcestershire, which borough is totally surrounded by only Staffordshire), while the Isle of Uffa was an exclave because it was surrounded by at least two other areas (the Holland Part of Lincolnshire to the north and the Soke of Peterborough to the south). This Act also gave both the Soke and the Isle of Ely county status; previously the latter had been ruled from Cambridge. 

Both Ely and Uffa take their watery appellations from before the draining of the originally much larger Wash Estuary meant that they stopped being actual islands. The derivation of the word Uffa is uncertain, but local legend states that it was the name of a colleague of the famous Hereward the Wake, the anti-Norman resistance fighter.

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It was only two days after we had returned from Shakespeare's Stratford. I had had a particularly busy day at work – I was sure that some of my patients had been 'saving up' their troubles in my absence – and had arrived home looking forward to a bath only to find that my room-mate had beaten me to it. He duly emerged some time later smelling faintly of whatever bath salts he was currently favouring – lemon and lime, I thought. He also looked oddly troubled for this time of an evening, and I immediately felt worried.

“Problems?” I asked. He fixed me with a look.

“Mrs. Hustings finally caught me at home”, he said heavily. “Despite my best efforts.”

_Ugh!_

“And your received her?” I asked trying to keep my voice even. 

“I thought it better”, he sighed. “She seemed determined to persist in her efforts, so I felt that it was right and proper to tell her exactly where we stood in relation to each other.”

“I see”, I said. relaxing a little as I sat down.

“So I am taking her out to dinner on Friday.”

Years of withholding information from patients stood me in good stead at that moment in my life and apart from blinking in surprise I controlled my reaction quite well.

 _“You are bloody well not!”_ I yelled, rising to my feet in my fury.

All right, perhaps just a little more than blinking. Holmes looked at me, seemingly nonplussed at my reaction, before I saw that slight smile creasing the corner of his mouth.

“You were having me on!” I protested. He chuckled.

“Your face!” he laughed. “I thought that my doctor was going to need a doctor!”

I scowled (no, it was _not_ a pout) and stormed off to the bathroom in a huff. He was mean to me!

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The next morning I woke to find Holmes had gone out early. There was however a box from my favourite bakery which, heaven be praised, contained three luxury chocolate slices along with a card stating 'Sorry'. I smiled at the consideration, these were some of my favourite pastries, their only drawback being that they had to be eaten quickly as they did not keep.

Holmes arrived later and I thanked him in person. 

“LeStrade has heard of a rather unusual case of theft in the Isle of Ely”, he told me as he sat there sucking at his pipe. At least he had put the violin away; I had scowled at Betty when the maid had delivered afternoon tea the day before with cotton-wool stuffed in her ears, smirking far too loudly for my liking. Holmes's playing was tolerable most times but when he got moody and played one of his sad pieces it went right through me. We should all have had to suffer that experience equally!

“Odd?” I asked. “How pray?”

“An old police friend of his, a Mr. Quinn Cox, had retired to close by the area where it happened”, he said. “Normally the local constable would deal with a case of theft but this is.... different.”

“Different”, I echoed.

“Definitely unusual”, he said. “LeStrade will be visiting in about an hour to tell us more.“I presume that indicates that he and/or his friend has some link to the case which makes his own involvement undesirable. I am sure that the fact it is Mrs. Hudson's coffee-cake day today is neither here nor there!”

“Gregson will be disappointed that he was beaten to it this time”, I said on a totally not snarky manner.

“”He was not”, Holmes grinned. “He was walking the beat for once and 'just happened' to meet me when I came back, then invited himself in to see if Mrs. Hudson 'just happened' to be baking today!”

Seriously, I sometimes wondered how some detectives had the time to do their jobs with all this cake! Some people were terrible with their pastries and.... 

Holmes looked pointedly at the now empty cake-box, with an expression that was dangerously close to a smirk. I scowled at him; that was _quite_ different!

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“I know I don't have to remind you gentlemen that my old friend would get into trouble if it ever emerged he'd told me about this case”, LeStrade said later, definitely not slavering over a large slice of cake. “But he thought, and I agreed, that it's just plain weird.”

“Go on”, Holmes said.

“Have either of you heard of the Isle of Uffa?”

We both shook our heads.

“It's an exclave of the Isle of Ely just south of Lincolnshire”, he said. “No railway station and Quinn says they're still a world apart even in this modern age. The 'isle' is just a few miles across and only has one fair-sized village in it, Fenchurch Magna. Rivers and drains completely surround it and the only ways on or off are a toll bridge or a boat. The squire is one Mr. Merioneth Fforbes; merry by name but not by nature so Quinn says. The place reeks of history and was once a hideout for old Hereward the Wake† after 1066.”

“An ancient place”, I said. LeStrade nodded.

“Mr. Fforbes owns a jewelled hunting dagger; he calls it a 'poniard' which is just a fancy word for it, Quinn says. It's said to go all the way back to Hereward himself. I doubt that – it's a bit like every hotel that says 'Queen Elizabeth slept here', even if she did get about a bit - but it's worth a pretty penny regardless. It was kept on display at Hereward House and Quinn said that from when he saw it, it sure looked old. This Wednesday just gone it was stolen.”

“Why was it not in the newspapers?” I asked.

“Because Squire Fforbes was sure that it hadn't left the area”, LeStrade said. “The house was being visited by a party of four guests one of whom had expressed some interest in purchasing the item. If you were to take an interest in the case I am sure Quinn would be grateful; I know he reads the doctor's stories.”

Holmes looked at me.

“A summer break in the Fens”, he said lightly. “Watson, can you take a few days off work?”

“Luckily I am still owed for all the extra hours that I worked in winter”, I said. “I will ask when I go in today, and if they agree then we can go tomorrow.”

 _Before the wicked witch drops by a second time_ , I added silently.

Holmes nodded. The mind-reading thing had passed annoying and was now becoming worrying.

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Twenty-four thankfully harridan-less hours later we were on a Great Northern Railway train out of King's Cross and headed for the town of Peterborough. From there we would take a slow train to Fenchurch Road Halt; LeStrade's friend Mr. Cox would meet us there and take us to Fenchurch Magna.

After a tolerable journey of a couple of hours duration we reached our destination, which lay in a hamlet called Kirton-in-the-Marsh. Mr. Quinn Cox was I thought surprisingly fit for someone in his sixties and as bald as LeStrade (the cynic in me wondered if his bald dome was as good when it came to detecting any nearby cake?). At least the sunlight glinting off Mr. Cox's dome was a better sight than Lord Joseph Ploughwright's 'rug' which I had felt had been just begging to be offered a biscuit! I felt instinctively towards my own thatch, which mercifully showed no signs of thinning. As yet. 

Of course 'someone' had to choose that very moment to turn and give me a knowing look. I just could not catch a break!

“I was Gawain's contact that time he had to visit New York”, our host explained and I could detect the American accent at once. “When he returned to England I was about to retire and chose to follow him.”

“Why the Fens?” Holmes asked. “The United States is a wonderful young country but from talking to its citizens I find that many of them think that England starts and ends with London.”

I thought of my terrible cousin Miss Constance Watson who had been almost as bad as Mrs. Hustings in her time. She had recently married and moved out west to California; I had received a card to inform me and had been strongly tempted to write back to her new husband to express my deepest sympathies for the fellow!

_Holmes was smirking again, damn the fellow_

“Valerie's sister Eunice married a Fenchurch man, a Mr. Josiah Netley, and they live here”, our host explained. “I came up here with her and Gawain a few years ago, and I just fell in love with the place. It is very parochial, like living in a time capsule.”

“Have you told Mr. Fforbes about your bringing us in on the case?” Holmes asked.

“I did”, Mr. Cox admitted, almost reluctantly I noted, “and as I had expected he immediately _demanded_ to see you the moment that you arrived. Bearing in mind how the Isle is, I am sure that he will hear of your advent likely before you reach Fenchurch!”

I nodded though I wished that he would have waited as it was impossible to take notes in a moving vehicle. He noted my discomfiture and smiled.

“My notes as to what I have found so far are at your disposal, doctor”, he assured me. “Though I feel that the case itself is beyond my few talents. I should begin perhaps by explaining the peculiar situation here and just why I am involved in the first place.”

He sighed.

“The Isle of Uffa is part of the Isle of Ely so administratively under Cambridgeshire, but it is detached from the rest of that county”, he began. “It is also subject to certain arcane laws which lead the county constabulary to tread warily around Mr. Fforbes. In truth one of their constables should be handling this case, but recently there was a major case involving a Fenchurch man and their heavy-handed approach upset several of the locals, with a lot of bad feeling as a result. When I offered to look into this matter both the chief-constable who is a friend of mine and Squire Fforbes who... is Squire Fforbes, agreed that it might be for the best.”

“I see”, Holmes said. “We must tread softly then.”

“Indeed”, Mr. Cox said. “So to the crime which is the theft of the Uffa Poniard, more commonly called the Hereward Dagger. This past Monday Squire Fforbes was telegraphed by his financial adviser in London that there was a business opportunity which required his signature within forty-eight hours. He left the same afternoon for the city and duly sorted matters out. He had intended to be away for three days and to visit his property manager on the Wednesday or Thursday, but that gentleman was hit by a family bereavement so they brought their dealings to a speedy conclusion and the squire returned home in the early afternoon of Wednesday the twenty-ninth, a whole day earlier than planned. In his absence the estate was run by his eldest son Peter Fforbes, a bright young fellow who gets on well with his father. He is nineteen, a much more pleasant character than his father, and planning to attend university at Oxford.”

“Why not Cambridge?” I asked, surprised. “It is a lot closer.”

“I wondered at that”, Mr. Cox said, “and he said that he wanted the experience of living away from home for the first time. Cambridge would have meant a fairly easy commute from Fenchurch even if roads in and around the Isle are poor.”

I could vouch for that. What with all the bumps and ruts in this so-called 'road', it was not far short of my unhappy sea-crossing of Cork Harbour!

“I should also have mentioned that Squire Fforbes was expecting his guests on Wednesday morning, all of whom were staying until the Sunday”, he went on. “Peter insisted however that he could easily entertain them in his father's absence rather than having to cancel or postpone them for want of a couple of days. By the time the squire had returned, all the guests had indeed arrived and his son had taken one of them to Cambridge for the day, to look round the colleges I suppose. Naturally the squire went straight into the gallery to check on his beloved dagger, only to find that it had been taken!”

 _“Dramatis personae?”_ Holmes asked.

“Four, apart from Mr. Fforbes and his son”, the policeman said. “He has two more sons and a daughter but all are away at boarding-schools just now. Mr. Edmund Grice-Patterson, the member of parliament for Chatteris which is only a few miles from Fenchurch, is an old friend of his. He is forty-six, a Conservative, and I think no more or less corrupt than most of the rapscallions down at Westminster.”

_(One astute reader of mine wondered why somewhere as small as Chatteris, a town with a population of barely a thousand souls, still had its own member of parliament some fifty and more years after the Great Reform Act. In fact it had been set to lose its representation but the wily townsfolk had dug out a clause in their charter in which King James the Sixth and First had promised them a voice in parliament for at least three centuries. That had been in 1621; the seat was therefore only abolished in 1921 and became part of the Isle of Ely seat)._

“Then there are his son Thomas and his daughter Alice”, our host continued. “Thomas is nearly twenty and went to the same school as Peter to whom he is a good friend; he will share with him when they go to Oxford although they are doing different courses. His sister is nineteen and loudly – unfortunately _very_ loudly! - into women's suffrage to the discomfiture of just about everyone who cannot run away fast enough from her, as the idea of keeping her opinions to herself is not one that she has yet come across. Either that or it has not been able to get a word in edgewise! Squire Fforbes speaks of the desirability of her marrying Peter when he reaches twenty-one but as far as I know the poor boy has not done anything to merit so dreadful a fate!”

I smiled at that.

“Who is the fourth person?” Holmes asked.

“That is where it gets interesting”, Mr. Cox said pushing his round spectacles up his stubby nose. “Mr. Rufus Sully, a jewellery expert whom the squire had agreed – reluctantly I suspect – to allow to examine the dagger. Or would have done had it not been taken. As I am sure you know the general opinion of experts thus far, even though none have been allowed to examine the dagger closely, is that it is most probably mediaeval at best. I should mention that Mr. Sully is also quite rich and it is he who has expressed an interest in purchasing the dagger. However I am sure that Squire Fforbes would rather sell the house first!”

“Intriguing!” Holmes said. “Was there no security to protect this valuable antique?”

“Not in the conventional sense of the word”, our host said. “It has been stolen twice before but was returned on both occasions. I should probably have mentioned the Curse of the Hunted which it is said was bestowed on the weapon by a local witch in Hereward's time. Should it ever leave the Isle or the family then something terrible will happen to the thief. I know how bizarre that sounds, gentlemen, but the last time it happened the thief's two sons both died – both stabbed in knife attacks within an hour of each other, yet in different towns! I am sure that Squire Fforbes will be champing at the bit to show you the scene of the crime when we get there.”

“Insurance?” I ventured.

“Mr. Fforbes does not believe in it”, Mr. Cox said. “In this case perhaps I can understand. One cannot replace history.”

“Could someone from outside have done it?” Holmes asked.

“That is unlikely. The Isle is accessed only by a toll bridge which we are coming up to, or by a passenger ferry, really a row-boat owned by the Bull & Bush tavern in Fenchurch Parva which links to Steepleton in Lincolnshire. The area is such that any stranger would be spotted immediately.”

Our carriage rumbled to a halt as Mr. Cox handed over a halfpenny to the clearly suspicious toll-collector and we rumbled over the river and onto Uffa. I could see his point; even by the standards of this remote part of the country the place seemed bereft of all human life. I could well imagine a Saxon renegade warrior hiding out here nearly a thousand years ago, plotting his next daring raid against the vile Normans who were enslaving his people. Then I caught Holmes's amused expression and blushed. 

Manfully, of course.

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Fenchurch Magna may have been the largest place on Uffa but it was still little more than a village with just a few shops, a post-office, a high street with a strange kink in its main road for some reason and an oddly-proportioned if attractive large church.

“The castle-like building at the bend used to be the main entrance to the Hall”, Mr. Cox explained as we left the village and turned in at a gatehouse before starting up a long curved drive, “but when the grounds were landscaped the current exit north of the village was put in and that one closed up, being converted into a number of apartments. Our local church St. Swithun's is very old, part Saxon; if we have time we can go and examine it more closely. This is Hereward House!”

I looked at the approaching building and was relieved to see that it looked early Georgian, possibly even Queen Anne. The current fashion for Gothic architecture frankly made me uncomfortable as I always felt that it looked out of place in England. A footman was awaiting our arrival and spoke immediately to Mr. Cox who then turned to us.

“Squire Fforbes does wish to see us immediately”, he said, almost apologetically.

“That is why we are here”, Holmes said comfortingly. “Let us go and brave the storm!”

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I have to say that I did not take well to Squire Merioneth Fforbes, a bluff fifty-something English nobleman who was suspicious of us both from the start. He seemed torn between dubiousness at Holmes's abilities and outright hostility to the idea that I might write up the case at some future date. It was a tribute to my friend's abilities to soothe even the most ruffled feathers that he soon persuaded the fellow that nothing he undertook was _ever_ published without the consent of the (innocent) parties involved, or at least their close kin. Though I still caught him regarding me warily at dinner. I was strongly tempted to take out my notebook just to see if that would provoke him!

I really wished that Holmes would not shake his head at me like that!

The jewellery expert Mr. Sully was not at dinner as he was dining at the vicarage after looking over some of the church's possessions, but the three young people were in attendance. Miss Alice Grice-Patterson was every bit as formidable as Mr. Cox had made out and expounded her feelings on women's suffrage to both Holmes and myself. Or at least to me; 'someone' almost predictably ended up getting simpered at instead! I was also a little surprised that this did not evince a reaction from Squire Fforbes but I later learned from Mr. Cox that the one time the two had clashed she had got the better of the argument, and that their host had since held his fire.

Miss Grice-Patterson seemed infinitely more interested in her political views and her Holmes-induced eye problem than in sharing anything more than an occasional word with young Mr. Peter Fforbes ,who spent much of the dinner talking quietly with his friend. The boys were physically very similar and I thought privately that the squire's son did not look like much of a future lord to me. Like his father he and his friend also avoided engaging Miss Grice-Patterson on any political matters, wisely I thought. The only difference between the boys, rather unfortunately, was that Mr. Peter Fforbes's face was 'distinguished' by a most regrettable attempt at a moustache; either that or something had crawled across his upper lip and died there!

After dinner Miss Grice-Patterson went to the library (thankfully!) and the boys left to the billiard-room. Holmes turned to our host.

“I think that now might be a good time to visit the scene of the crime”, he said. “May we go to the gallery, please?”

Squire Fforbes nodded and led the way out of the dining-room, pausing before he unlocked the door to the gallery.

“Do you think that the dagger can be recovered?” he asked, his voice almost breaking.

“The fact that the curse has not been activated suggests that it has not yet left the island”, Holmes observed. 

I was surprised; I had not thought that he believed much in superstition. Perhaps he was just being nice to our client.

The squire nodded and led us into the gallery. The room itself was surprisingly well-lit with a large central window overlooking the front of the estate. There were three glass cases in the centre of the room, two large and one small. The small middle case contained a very empty purple cushion and nothing else. Holmes walked up to it and frowned.

“It was not locked?” he asked.

“It was but they broke the glass”, our host said. “That cover is an old one that I had, without a lock.”

Holmes nodded and ran his fingers round the base of the cabinet.

“Who has access to the keys?” he asked.

“The cabinet and gallery keys are all on the main set”, the squire said, “which I have with me at all times.”

“But you were away in London immediately prior to the theft”, Holmes pointed out. “Did you leave the keys with your son?”

Squire Fforbes's face reddened.

“I did”, he admitted, “but when I asked him Peter admitted that he had left them downstairs in my study while he and Tom were working on something in his room.”

Holmes smiled. I knew that look; he was on to something.

“Is there a spare set?” he asked.

“Yes but not together”, our host said. “Mrs. Pollard the housekeeper has keys to all the rooms but not the cabinets while Arnulfson, my butler, has the cabinet keys but not the room one. Mrs. Pollard allows the maids in to dust, but she always locks up after they finish. She always checks round after they are done; she assured me that after the last cleaning on the day of the theft, the dagger was still there.”

“How old is this house?” Holmes asked. 

Our host gaped at the apparent _non sequitur._

“Pardon?”

“In what year was the house built, sir?” Holmes asked patiently.

“It is early sixteenth century, but it was mostly destroyed in the Great Fire of 1701 and rebuilt in the style of that time.”

“And this is part of the old building?”

“Yes, but....”

“Has it always been a gallery?”

Our host seemed to make an effort to pull himself together.

“This used to be a family chapel during Elizabethan times”, he said. “You can see that it affords an excellent view of the old access road heading east, which given the religious differences of the time was often useful.”

“Excellent!” Holmes beamed. “I believe that we may be able to bring this case to a successful resolution even if the good doctor will in all probability be unable to publish it for some time.”

He strode from the room and I scuttled after him.

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I woke from a pleasant dream in which I felt strangely happy for no particular reason, only to realize that I was not alone in my room. Groggily I squinted up into a familiar pair of impossibly blue eyes.

Holmes was leaning right over me. What the....?

“Rise and shine, doctor”, he smiled cheerily. “Breakfast is served!”

I squinted at my watch, then baulked. What was Holmes doing up and alert at this time of a morning? Did they serve coffee in bed? Or was it indeed the apocalypse?

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We sat down to a delicious breakfast – copious supplies of both strong coffee and crispy bacon, which likely explained Holmes being both awake and coherent – where we were joined by both Mr. Sully (a short, dark man in his late thirties whom I instinctively mistrusted) and Mr. Cox. We were still eating when our host arrived. I could see at once that he was not in a good mood.

“What has happened?” Mr. Cox asked. The squire sank heavily into his chair.

“Someone took the Bull's rowing-boat”, he said morosely. “They have left the island!”

I saw at once the implications of what he had said. If someone had taken the dagger and had hidden on the island for a while, they had now gotten away. Finding them would surely be almost impossible. Our host took a coffee but waved away food, looking totally dejected.

That was until the end of the meal when a maid hurried into the room looking totally flustered, tried to curtsey to our host while walking and nearly fell over her own feet, then whispered something to him.

“What the hell?” he yelled before shooting to his feet and racing out of the room.

We all followed as quickly as we could to the gallery where we found our host staring incredulously at the scene before him. There in the centre of the room, was the small display cabinet with the purple cushion. And on the cushion was what was undeniably a small hunting-dagger.

Squire Fforbes beckoned Mr. Sully forward and the expert gently lifted the weapon and examined it thoroughly before replacing it gently onto the cushion. Then he nodded at our host. 

As if by magic Arnulfson appeared next to his master holding a large glass of whisky, which the fellow downed in one shot. Then he looked sharply at Holmes.

“Can you explain this?” he demanded.

“I can certainly tell you how they got in and out”, Holmes said.

Squire Fforbes gaped at him.

 _“How?”_ he demanded.

Holmes walked over to a corner of the gallery and pressed the upper right corner of what looked like an ordinary-looking panel. Except when he did so it slid back to reveal an opening. He reached in and pulled something, and a much larger panel some a few feet away slid back smoothly.

“A priest-hole!” I gasped.

“Rather more”, Holmes said. “Your ancestors, sir, were Catholics at a time when the country was turning Protestant, and as you said they most wisely foresaw that a rapid exit from their property might be required at extreme short notice. I am sure that this leads outside to somewhere in the grounds but you might care to note that there are footprints both coming and going on the dusty floor behind the panel. This is the means by which the thief gained access to the room. You will also notice how smoothly the mechanism operated, which shows that it has been used recently.”

“But why did he return it?” Mr Fforbes demanded.

“Possibly the curse?” Holmes said. “Maybe they ventured over the bridge or took the boat, something terrible happened and like those villains before them they very wisely took the hint and chose to return it. As to the identity of the thief – now that we are sure that they came from the outside world it could have been almost anyone.”

I was sure that I felt a slight gasp from someone in the group behind me but I could not identify who it was.

“Well I have my dagger back”, Mr. Fforbes said, “and that is all that matters to me. This calls for a celebration. Drinks, everyone!”

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“You know who it was, do you not?” I said as our carriage rolled away from Hereward House the following day. He nodded.

“An unconventional crime in every way”, he said. “The motives were certainly.... different. But I have spoken to the thief – if I may call them such - and I am certain that the crime such as it was will not be repeated.”

“Mr. Sully?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Young Mr. Peter Fforbes”, he said. 

I stared at him in confusion.

“But why?” I demanded. “He will inherit it one day, anyway. Why would he take what is virtually his own property?”

“For the person he loved”, Holmes smiled. “A foolish dare ; if you love me enough then leave the island with me and the dagger. As it was not really theft there was no danger from any curse, real or not.”

“That cannot be right”, I said firmly. “He told us he went into Cambridge with his friend Thomas Grice-Patterson, not Alice.”

Holmes looked at me knowingly and I only slowly realized that he was willing me to get it. Slowly I did.

Oh. _Oh!_

“Squire Fforbes should have been more careful as to what he wished for”, Holmes said wryly. “His son and heir is indeed in love, though not with the Grice-Patterson that he suspects. I only hope that they will be more discreet than when they were at dinner that night. Their pointedly moving apart from each other every time someone looked at them was one of the things that alerted me to that possibility.”

“But the priest-hole?” I objected.

“I spoke to the boys last night”, Holmes explained. “Thomas Grice-Patterson went to steal the rowing-boat – he just moved it a short distance upstream so it has likely already been found - while Peter Fforbes and I went to the gallery. He oiled the mechanism and then went into and out of the priest-hole a couple of times to give the impression that someone had used it; he took the precaution of wearing a pair of his father's shoes just in case. The boy was the obvious thief after all.”

“How?” I asked.

“Remember that the glass was broken?” he said.

I nodded.

“I looked at the locks on one of the other cabinets”, he said. “Even the most infantile thief could have cut away such a lock easily and lifted the glass off. But Mr. Fforbes had to destroy the lock otherwise suspicion might have fallen on him as the key-holder. That coupled with the priest-hole implied that it was an outside job.”

“Obviously!” I said.

“The boys wish to go to Australia together once they have finished their studies, when Peter's brother William will be of age so that he can safely inherit the Hall if the squire passes”, Holmes said. “The curse of the dagger remains, which in this scientific age can only be for the good.”

I shook my head at all this.

“Young Peter Fforbes aside, I could never publish this case”, I said ruefully.

“Perhaps some day the world will be more accepting”, he said. “Let us hope that we shall both live to see it.”

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Postscriptum: Young Peter Fforbes and his 'friend' did indeed decamp to Australia some five years later, whence they sent Holmes a letter of thanks and to say how well they were doing. The world did not change that much during our lifetimes after all. But I think I may safely say that, if eventually, I myself had more than enough in the way of compensation.

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_Notes:_   
_† A resistance fighter later connected, rightly or wrongly, with the local Wake family, hence the nickname. An eleventh century bad boy whose actions were later 'polished' (lied about and/or exaggerated) by historians for whatever reason._

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	10. Case 119: The Adventure Of The Ninth Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Holmes grows concerned about a visiting doctor at Watson's practice. Yes, concerned; he is not jealous in any way, shape or form. So there!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was strange that this horrible little affair happened when it did, for Watson's friend Doctor Peter Greenwood had come over to examine him after he had suffered a fall when a hansom he was in had been smashed into by another. I had been concerned over my friend and relieved that his fellow doctor had been able to come round so quickly. Knowing that unlike myself Watson was a modest fellow I had muttered something about going out and had made for the door; however I was barely on the first stair when I remembered; I actually _had_ needed to go out because I had a letter to post that was quite urgent. Making my excuses I went back in, grabbed the letter and left a second time.

Smiling.

It may have taken over a year, but Watson was fully back to his old self physically again. The old, stocky, solid Watson that I had known and.... got used to during our first cases hunting together before my own stupidity had led to that brutal three year period without him. It was so good to have him back to normal, the man that I l......

I stopped myself right there!

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Some days later Watson came home from the surgery the Saturday after his friend's visit looking even more fed up than usual, which considering some of the patients that he had to treat on a regular basis was quite an achievement. I often had a sneaking fear that one day I might have to investigate a particularly annoying patient's untimely passing, which would of course have been terrible as I would never have been able to find the doctor who had done it.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked as he slumped down into his chair. The July heat was stifling and I had our huge window opened as far as it would go (there was a safety-catch on it presumably to discourage me from attempting to throw any annoying lounge-lizard brothers out of it, but I was sure that someone of my great abilities could work round that if/when needed). 

My friend sighed heavily.

“The surgery is to entertain a visiting doctor from the Isle of Man for a week before he heads off abroad somewhere”, he said, looking decidedly disgruntled. “I am to have the 'great honour' of having our visitor following me around for seven days so that he can see what the life of a city doctor is like, and how we do things differently from his Manx colleagues. It would have been Peter but with Anne only recently having given birth I felt obliged to step in for him.”

I privately felt that for all that he was a decent fellow and had attended my friend only recently, Doctor Peter Greenwood really could learn to keep it in his trousers more. That made five now, and when he had visited he had mentioned that he and Anne were trying for number six. That someone as plain as him had landed a beautiful and rich wife was another of those things that convinced me I would never understand the fairer sex, but that was all right as such a feat was beyond all mortal men.

“Do you know the fellow?” I asked. He shook his head.

“A Doctor Nonus Hugh”, he said. “Weird name.”

I smiled at his attitude.

“Possibly a ninth child”, I ventured. “'Nonus' is Latin for nine, as in the nonagon and November†.”

“Please God no!” he groaned. “Having to put up with one overly keen tyro asking me questions every five seconds is bad enough, without eight more in line behind him.”

I chuckled, blissfully unaware that the visiting Manxman was indeed going to bring troubles. Just not for Watson.

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Doctor Hugh was, Watson told me, staying somewhere nearby so would come to Baker Street each morning to walk with him to the surgery. The fellow duly turned up early Monday morning, and I was frankly not impressed. He was an almost otherworldly fellow of about thirty years of age with short-cropped dark hair and a strange taste in black clothing, a medium-length black leather jacket over trousers that were far too right for any gentleman outside of my stepbrother Campbell's 'Debating Societies'. I suppose that he was moderately attractive in his own fashion, although certainly not enough for Miss Thackeray to do that mock-swooning thing of hers when she showed him up. 

As I said, I would never understand women!

The fellow regarded me somewhat curiously although he was polite enough, and even if I did not think much of him I hoped that my friend would be able to tolerate him for a week. I saw them both off and looked forward to a quiet week in as my workload had been quite heavy of late.

I was not to get my wish. Not by a long chalk.

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“That new friend of the doctor's is dangerous.”

I looked up in surprise at our landlady. I had wondered why Mrs. Hudson had come to collect the luncheon things herself, a task that she normally delegated to one of the maids. She therefore clearly wished to speak to me about something and I thought instinctively of that pistol; I was fairly sure that I had done nothing to earn her displeasure as of late or I would have swiftly been made aware of it.

“What new friend?” I asked.

“The tall fellow who went out with the doctor today”, she said. “I do not trust him.”

“Why not?” I asked, puzzled. “And why do you call him dangerous?”

“He was far too close to the doctor when he left”, she said shortly. “There is something not of this world about the fellow. I cannot put my finger on what exactly, but I do not like it. The way he talks as if the doctor is the oracle at that Greek place, looking at him like he... you know.”

I did not 'know'. But I did not like the idea of anyone looking at Watson like that. My friend worked far too hard to have to cope with distractions like that.

Mrs. Hudson took away the dishes and I thought for a few moments before deciding that a walk might help clear my head. If it chanced to take me in a certain direction, then that would be just one of those things.

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Miss Gladys Peabody was one of those elderly ladies who radiated an aura of absolute efficiency. I knew from Watson that she ran the affairs of the Bloomsbury Practice in all but name and was certainly of far more use than the supposed 'men in charge', all of whom I suspected were more than a little afraid of her. 

I also did not like the knowing look that she gave me when I said that I had just happened to have been passing. It was bordering dangerously on a smirk, and I hate people who smirk too much.

“I am afraid that you have missed him, Mr. Holmes”, she said sweetly. “Doctor Cadwallon's wife went into labour two weeks ahead of her time so he had to accompany her to the hospital Doctor Watson and his 'colleague' have been sent out to cover some of his calls.”

I did not like the way that she managed to enunciate those quotation marks. Not at all.

“Mr. Hugh is _very_ charming”, she went on, hopefully unaware of what her words were doing to my insides. “Doctor Watson had one patient before he had to leave and it is the first time that I have ever seen old Mrs. Collier smiling when she came out after her appointment. Quite shameless for someone married and of her age; she said that she thought tight black leather trousers were a most _wondrous_ thing on a modern gentleman!”

I thanked her for her time – with brothers like mine, I could be insincere when the need arose – and left. I had another call to make.

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There should have been no earthly way that even the efficient offices of Swordland's could have been aware of my friend's new assistant for the week. Yet when I happened past the place and called in just to pass the time, there was something that was perilously close to a smirk on Miss St. Leger's face as well. That was blatantly unfair; I never smirked on those few occasions that I caught Watson out.

Hardly ever.

Not that often. _And it was still annoying when someone else did it!_

“You are doubtless here about the _amazing_ Doctor Nonus Hugh”, she smiled. “Rarely have I seen someone charm so much of London in so short a time period. It is amazing what a pair of tight black leather trousers can achieve!”

I winced at the reminder. I did not need to think of the Manx doctor like that just now because he was with Watson and I... well, I just did not need to think of it!

“Do you wish me to find some dirt on him?” she asked. “Everyone has some skeletons in the closet you know, so someone as young and good-looking as him must have quite a few. We both know how jealous _some_ people can get.”

She was looking pointedly at me for some reason. I frowned.

“I do not want to make Watson think that I do not trust him to go round with an only moderately attractive fellow of over thirty years of age”, I said, very fairly, 'missing' her renewed smirk. “I shall deal with it myself.”

Unfortunately I did not.

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If I had known any different I would have thought Watson was doing it deliberately that evening. He was full of how wonderful 'Norry' had been, how helpful, how obliging, what a wonderful addition to the medical profession he was, how England would miss him when he was gone.... ugh!

“You seem a little off”, he said after I had endured several hours of underserved adulation for some questionable person of alien extraction, even if the mantle-piece clock erroneously claimed that it had been a mere ten minutes. “Is something wrong?”

“Just family matters again”, I said. “Mycroft's financial dealings are causing problems again.”

That at least was true. My eldest brother was the sort of know-it-all who would always be looking to get rich quick, and Father had had to bail him out on more than one occasion in the past. Some people never learned, although when Mother found out from that letter that 'someone' had sent her, he might well start. The hard way!

“We shall be in the surgery for the next few days”, he said, “as they are getting in a locum to do Glyn's work. We have more than our fair share of crotchety people in our area but Norry certainly charmed the few that we saw yesterday.”

Oh 'Norry' did, did 'Norry'? I frowned and went back to my book.

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Tuesday was a big improvement on Monday – _not!_ I watched the Manxman carefully when he arrived and sure enough he was way too far inside Watson's personal space, somewhere only... those close to him should have been allowed. My friend was also smiling far too much for someone who faced a dull day dealing with a bunch of rich hypochondriacs who were desperately hoping to be diagnosed with a severe case of Whipsnade-Umfolozi Syndrome rather than a mild seasonal cough, and would then be slow to pay for their terrible disappointment.

Watson popped his head back round the door and grabbed his hat from the coat-stand.

“Forgot it in all the excitement”, he smiled. “Is everything all right? You look a bit down?”

“I am fine”, I lied. “You go and enjoy your day.”

“I will!” he grinned. “See you later!”

I had never seen him so chipper before he went to work. This was terrible!

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“I have good news and I have bad news.”

I looked uncertainly at Miss St. Leger whose offices I had again just happened to be passing on an unscheduled morning walk. _And whose smirk was still annoying!_

“Concerning what?” I asked.

“I had a feeling yesterday that you would be back to ask me about a certain tight-trousered manly Manxman”, she said (I scowled at her omniscience). “So I put the wheels in motion.”

I was a little annoyed at her presumption and, if truth be told, my own predictability.

“What did you find out?” I asked not at all eagerly. “Is that the good news or the bad news?”

“Both.”

I stared at her in confusion.

“There is nothing in his past that is remotely scandalous”, she said. “Despite his more than pleasant appearance, absolutely nothing. A plethora of satisfied patients with not a whiff of scandal.”

“I suppose that is good”, I said. “For those that he works with.”

She frowned.

“That is also the bad news”, she said. “There is nothing in his past that is remotely scandalous.”

I looked at her in confusion.

“I mean _really_ nothing”, she said. “It is more difficult what with his coming from what is to all intents and purposes a separate country, but he has somehow contrived to live thirty years in this world without committing a single error of judgement whatsoever. That is humanly impossible!”

“You think that someone has tampered with the official records?” I asked.

“I suspect that they have”, she said. “But there is no evidence save that everything looks just _too_ clean. The only thing I did find that was a little unusual did not concern him directly; a cousin of some sort with whom he shared his house, a Mr. Octavian Hugh. He went off somewhere and disappeared but he was last traced to London so your Mr. Hugh cannot have been involved in that as he was still on his island at the time. Unless he grew wings and flew down here!”

I was beginning to get worried. I did not like this fellow at all.

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I returned home thinking that I could not feel any lower, so of course it took the universe but a few hours to prove me wrong. Watson arrived home and I realized to my horror that the tune he was humming as he sat waiting for dinner was a music-hall ballad – a romantic one! 

He caught my gaze and blushed.

“Romance”, he said sounding almost wistful. “It comes to all of us in the end.”

Apparently I _could_ feel lower. And now I did.

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On Wednesday Miss Josephine Thackeray totally disgraced herself by showing Mr. Hugh up and once more leering at his choice in trouser wear. I toyed with the idea of mentioning this to her aunt next time I could catch her working on her pistol, but decided that such a thing would be beneath me.

Probably beneath me.

Looking out of the huge window I saw the two men walking off towards the surgery. With Watson's improved financial situation of late he could have afforded a cab but he had said that he enjoyed the exercise, and particularly enjoyed time to chat with 'Norry' away from when they were busy with patients. I scowled for no particular reason and went back to my book which for some reason was failing to hold my attention of late.

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On Thursday I may or may not have employed the services of one of London's top burglars to break into the oddly-named Tardis House, Doctor Hugh's rented lodgings, to see if she could find anything at all incriminating. I had used Miss Elvira Gorringe for such tasks before so she knew what was required, but sadly she came up with very little.

“A few odd things about that room of his”, she told me when she came round later. “I know you said that he is only passing through, but there were almost no personal effects whatsoever. The only thing of note was a photograph album.”

“Anything in it?” I asked hopefully.

“His family, and they are a strange lot”, she said. “They seem to have a fetish for Roman number names, you know the sort; Primus, Secundus and so on. Only one picture of each fellow; frankly none of them were much to look at. Plus there were three spaces after the picture of him, with the corner stickers in place as if someone had removed a photograph, but the pages beneath were not a different colour which you get when they do that. Then there was his thing for the number nine; anything that he could reasonably have nine of, he did. Still, I have seen weirder in my time.”

I did not doubt that she had, in her profession.

“The third thing makes no sense at all”, she frowned, “but I rely on my senses so I shall say it anyway. The room seemed a lot bigger on the inside than out. I did not have a tape-measure on me but looking at the doors and windows on the outside of the place, it should not have been that big. Yet it seemed at least twice the size that it should have been. Maybe he is some alien traveller across the relative dimensions of time and space.”

As well as being one of the best thieves in London Town, Miss Elvira Gorringe was also one of its leading scientists. One certainly got variety living here!

“I can only hope he does indeed travel on”, I said. “Did you perchance find out if he is indeed moving on at the weekend?”

“His landlady's books only have him there until Sunday”, she said with far too knowing a smile. “From what I hear of the fellow's impact on the city, he will be missed by many.”

“Many, but not all”, I said not at all sourly.

Ladies of her class really should not smirk like that.

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The following morning we had an early visitor. Mrs. Hudson Did Not Like visitors to the house before a decent hour of a morning, but one of the few who was allowed in was Constable David Chapel, the friend of Mr. Benjamin Hope whom we had rescued from the Tankerville Club some eight years back. Constable Chapel had at the time been of slender build (although in no way as emaciated as his poor friend) but had since filled out into his current impressive form, although he looked more than a little battered and bruised as he arrived to our rooms.

“We had a party of men – I will not say gentlemen – at the house last night”, he explained. “They had to be removed and I am afraid I pulled something in my arm. Can Doctor Watson have a look at me, sir?”

As well as serving in the Metropolitan Police, Constable Chapel worked as extra security at several of my stepbrother Campbell's molly-houses, especially at times like this when they had large parties who might (and too often did) cause this sort of trouble. He did not 'swing that way' as our landlady put it and having married some four years back now had two sons, but that of course required money. He was also a proud man and did not take help easily, but Watson and I had managed to persuade him to accept a gift on the birth of his first-born son who shared his name, and Watson had treated the boy one time when he had been ill.

“Of course”, Watson smiled. “Do you wish to go on ahead, Norry?”

'Norry' smiled. I did not grind my teeth; it was a rogue piece of bacon.

“I shall wait”, he said. “A neck injury you said, sir?”

“Yes”, Constable Chapel said. “Like the one I had before. Do you have any of that unguent you used on me before, doctor?”

“Not here”, Watson said, “but when we get to the surgery I shall send a jar over to your home. St. George Street, if I remember?”

Constable Chapel nodded.

“You might ask the person who applies it to warm it for ten minutes first”, 'Norry' suggested. “That makes it far more effective in treating strains and pulls.”

“Thank you, sir”, the constable smiled. “I shall do that.”

I did not scowl. At all.

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.  
Watson arrived home that evening not looking so happy. My spirits rose; perhaps Mr. Perfect was finally beginning to show his human side after all!

_Shut up!_

“Our last patient was out in Westbourne Park”, he said, “so we dropped in on our way back to see if Constable Chapel was all right. He said that the heat thing had worked wonders.”

_Drat!_

“That is good”, I lied. Constable Chapel was one of the truly good men in the capital's oftentimes variable constabulary, and I may or may not have suggested to his landlord that repairs to his house should be effected swiftly. There may or may not have been one of my mother's stories involved somewhere along the line ('The X-Files', the one about the 'probing' aliens who wanted to experience humanity at both ends); the constable had told Watson that he had never seen six British workman on one roof!

“Your stepbrother Campbell was visiting at the time”, Watson said. “He said that if Alan would not have killed him then, in his words, 'he would have tapped that'.”

I shook my head at such an attitude.

“He did say that it was a pity Norry was going abroad as that was two men lost to the business”, Watson smiled. “I suppose I should be flattered; Norry is so much more attractive than I.”

I did not grind my teeth. Again. 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, I said not at all sententiously. “Not everyone can like this friend of yours.”

He chuckled.

“Even Lady Budleigh who we passed in the street leered at his backside”, he said. “With her husband standing right there next to her. He was not best pleased!”

I scowled. 

“No man should go round London Town expecting every single lady to leer at him just because of his appearance”, I said.

Strange. I had not known that Watson had picked up a cough of late.

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Saturday, and only one full day to go as 'Norry' was taking the Sunday night train to wherever abroad he was going (wherever the hell it was, it was not far enough for me). Things really could not be worse!

As it turned out, they could. 'Norry' called to collect Watson on their last full day of work and they talked briefly before heading out. But on his way to the door 'Norry's shoe-lace became undone and he stopped to kneel down and deal with it. There was a horrible sound of ripping leather and when he stood up.... he was clearly not going out like that!

I did not smirk. Which was just as well because I was about to have no reason to.

“What a pity”, Watson said. “Never mind. I can loan you a pair of mine – we are about the same size – and you can give them back to me tomorrow.”

The two went into his room where, I slowly realized, 'Norry' was removing his trousers in Watson's room and....

Very poor quality pencils they make these days. They snap under the slightest pressure.

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The two of them emerged after what seemed like an eternity, 'Norry' clearly far too comfortable in his new wear.

“Your trousers are very nice”, John”, he smiled. “I must get the name of your tailor and see if he ships to my next port of call. These are very roomy.”

He looked at me with what was definitely a knowing smirk. I waited for him to go and then glared at the clock on the mantle-piece.

“Tick faster, damn you!” I not-snarled.

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Watson did not work most Sundays but the following day his plans to go and say goodbye to his new 'friend' were scuppered when one of the surgery's richer clients contrived to fall down the stairs while drunk (they were also the stairs of a 'gentleman friend' whom she had been visiting at the time, so the matter was deemed somewhat urgent). My friend therefore had to go all the way out to Denmark Hill and I did not smirk at that fact in any way, shape or form. Or if I did, there was no-one there to see it.

My friend may have missed the departure of the unwanted 'Norry' but I did not. The pest came to Baker Street to return Watson's trousers and I explained his absence still without smirking.

“Dear John is very likeable”, 'Norry' agreed. “If he were not already taken I would definitely, as your stepbrother said the other day, 'tap that!'”

I wondered at his words but was devoting all my efforts to controlling myself. I said goodbye to him with as much sincerity as I could muster, which was perhaps not that much. Then I went to the window to watch him depart, to make sure that he was indeed leaving never to return. I saw him emerge from the front door, look briefly up at my window (I was sure there was a smirk even at this distance) and then set off towards the underground station.

There was the sound of yelling from the other end of the street and I was briefly distracted from my vigil. Only for a few seconds at most, but when I turned back the pest was gone. I stared in surprise; there were not many people about just then and he would not have had the time to duck into any of the houses. Where on earth had he gone? Also why, just as I turned back, had I caught some brief blue flashing light?

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Postscriptum: Merely out of curiosity and nothing else, I asked Miss St. Leger to track Doctor Hugh on his travels. I note this because this was the only time in her illustrious career when she 'failed', only being able to establish that the meddlesome medic did not apparently leave London by train or ship. He quite literally seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

Perhaps Miss Gorringe had been right after all.......

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_Notes:_   
_† The original Roman calendar started in March and ignored the winter months, and months five through ten were simply numbered. Quintilis (5) later became July and Sextilis (6) August, but September, October, November and December retained their names even when January and February were inserted at the start of the year._

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	11. Case 120: Dancing In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Be careful what you wish for – a nobleman is smitten with an unusual dancing servant but gets rather more than he expected, when Holmes finds the target of his affections amid the cinders.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Watson tends to idolize me in a way that is both endearing and worrying as I am far from perfect (although he had better not be rolling his eyes at that!), and he never writes of any case that he regards as a failure. The Nation might well come to think of me as some sort of guardian angel, which given the real character of those creatures that few read up on in the Bible, may be truer than they realize.

It was the week after Watson's time with his annoying alien from Man and I was hoping for things to get back to normal. He knew of course that something was wrong with me but my vague hints that it was family (which nine times out of ten it usually was) thankfully kept him from asking any difficult questions. What I needed was a small, simple case that was easily resolved which would help me to regain my confidence and stop thinking about... things that did not need thinking about. Because they were quite impossible.

For once, I got my wish.

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The Bloomsbury Surgery had one or two patients who were, in the words of Watson, 'characters' (i.e. the sort of 'characters' that one fervently hoped might suddenly see the joys of emigration or even better, the next world). Undoubtedly the worst by a long way was Mrs. Alexandrina Houseland-Harcourt, an elderly female ( _not_ a lady!) who had buried three husbands all of whom had most certainly been mightily relieved to be leaving her behind as they headed to their well-merited rests. Unhappily for poor Watson she had decided that she preferred him to treat her (or in her words, he was 'the least stupid idiot there'), so the surgery secretary Miss Peabody always arranged these appointments just before lunch in order that my friend could subsequently have a meal and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to stop shaking. 

He was on his third whisky (and still shaking) when the visitor's bell rang.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

“People rarely call at this time of day”, I said. “Although it may be nobility, many of whom seem to expect a twenty-four hour service because they are nobility.”

He shook his head at my cynicism but once again I was right. Moments later Betty brought up a card with 'Mercher†, Lord Brecknock'‡ on it. I hoped that the poor girl was recovered n now; I had mentioned to Mrs. Hudson that when she had brought our food in the other week while I had been playing the violin she had had cotton wool in her ears, and the landlady had said that this was some sort of treatment from her doctor. Not Watson, and I had had no idea why he had glared at her so at the time. She could not help missing out on my wonderful music.

Lord Mercher was a tall and handsome gentleman of about thirty years of age, about whom 'someone' who never ever read the society pages at all had once told me quite a lot. He was known in London society as 'the American' although actually only his grandfather hailed from that young nation, both his parents having been Welsh, but he had spent some time at university over there and had acquired some of that young nation's mannerisms (although thankfully not the one that raised his speaking volume by a factor of three even when their interlocutor was in the same room!). He had been a rower when younger and was now an excellent shooter. He was also - and this would prove important - estranged from his father Viscount Owen, who had had five sons with his wife and was exceptionally proud (with little reason, Watson had snarked) of the other four whom were all older than Lord Mercher. The estrangement had been deepened by the fact that the nobleman's American grandfather had bequeathed a large sum to him rather than to any of his older brothers, something that his father and brothers had subsequently contested in court and lost. Very expensively and very publicly lost.

I had little regard for the nobility as a rule, because rather too many of them looked down on myself and/or Watson yet still expected us to be at their beck and call, but Lord Mercher started well by not doing as so many did and objecting to my friend's presence.

“I doubt that you will find anything to write up in this sorry matter, doctor”, he said, his American accent quite notable. “Unless it is that rare thing, a case that your clever friend cannot solve.”

“I am to take it that this matter will require a large degree of discretion?” I asked. He nodded.

“Plus an even larger degree of talent!” he said. “I am looking for someone who may not even exist!”

We both looked at him in puzzlement.

“Why _are_ you looking for them, then?” Watson asked reasonably.

“You will probably not believe me when I tell you the sequence of events”, the nobleman sighed. “I was there, but even _I_ have trouble believing it!”

He took a sip from the whisky that Watson had poured him, and began.

“On Saturday I had to attend a ball at Evita, Lady Coopersale's place”, he said. “I suppose that strictly speaking I did not _have_ to attend but for all her failings she – or rather her husband - does do a lot of good works, and it was raising money for a hospital near where I live on the outskirts of London so I forced myself to go along. It was as bad as I had feared, and made infinitely worse by the fact that her dreadful daughters were there.”

I winced. I myself had seen Ladies Dawn and Diana Coopersale at a social event one time and I had not though it possible for so much make-up to have been trowelled onto one (fairly) human face, let alone two. Each female's voice had been like a nail on a blackboard as they had bickered with each other! Plus the way that both had simpered at me – I would sooner have gone home with Orrin, Lady Coopersale's bulldog, who was infinitely better looking _and_ better behaved!

“I see from your face that you too have had the displeasure”, Lord Mercher smiled. “I have never really had any wish to marry, settle down and raise a family, but the thought of living with either of those two for any length of time – I would be taking my gun and ending it as soon as possible! Or more likely ending them!”

Watson and I both smiled at his frankness.

“The ball proceeded and after some time I had to use the facilities”, he said. “Returning, I saw both harridans looking for someone and I very much feared that it was me. I decided to back away and hide; as you may know Coopersale Place is ridiculously huge so it was easy enough. I suppose that it may have been seen as a bit rude towards Lady Coopersale, but then she had set her daughters on me!”

“The whole nightmare was on the ground floor so I slipped up the back stairway, thinking that I would be safe there. I eventually found myself more or less above the main dancing-area; I could hear the music very clearly. I was a in a library and I thought I might read there for a bit – but there was someone already there, dancing.”

“Another refugee from the Terrible Twins?” Watson suggested. I shook my head at him but smiled.

“Definitely not one of the guests by her clothing”, our visitor said. “It was hard to make her out; the only light was what came through the floorboards as all the curtains were closed. But the way she moved – it was almost as if she had wings!”

“You did not see her face?” I asked. He suddenly looked much more serious.

“Right at the end”, he said. “The library was L-shaped and there was a window around the corner where the curtains had not been drawn. The moonlight came in and lit her face up and.... she was _beautiful!_ I had all of two seconds to take her in before my cursed luck caught up with me and the floorboard I was standing on creaked. It sounded like a gunshot in the room despite the music from below; she turned and was gone in an instant.”

“You did not go after her?” I asked.

“Of course I did!” he said firmly. “With all speed. But the door that she went through opened out onto a corridor and there was no trace of her, left or right. I tried all the doors that she could have gone through, but no luck. I did go back to the library and wait but she did not return, so eventually I steeled myself to seek our Lady Coopersale and made my escape.”

“Without attracting the attentions of the Terrible Twins?” Watson grinned (he really was awful at times, especially when he knew that he was right).

“Poor Henry Proctor - Lord Bathurst's son - was dealing with them both”, Lord Brecknock smiled. “I shall have to stand him a drink when I see him at our club; he definitely earned one for saving my ear-drums and likely my sanity. Is there anything that you can do, do you think?”

I thought for a moment.

“Obviously you cannot approach Lady Coopersale for several reasons”, I said.

“I can name at least two!” someone chipped in unhelpfully. I glared at him, however true his words were.

 _“Apart_ from those”, I said frostily, “if we are to assume it was an outsider that you saw – and that seems unlikely – then Lady Coopersale would hardly give you a guest list and tell you to have at it. If it was what I think it was, a servant either employed permanently or hired for the evening, then your inquiring after them might make Her Ladyship seek retribution against them for the heinous crime of denying her offspring the chance of matrimony.”

I caught Watson about to make another sarcastic comment and shook my head at him. He pouted his displeasure. He really was cute when he did that.

“So there is nothing that can be done”, our visitor sighed.

“I did not say that”, I said. “I am sure that I can obtain the guest-list through other more circuitous means, although as I said I do not think that we will find your mystery dancer there. It will probably be easier to obtain a full list of Lady Coopersale's servants and narrow it down to the few who will fit your description. The problem of course is that once we approach one of them then they will immediately gossip about it to the others. Hmm.”

I thought some more.

“How old would you estimate this dancer to have been?” I asked.

“Little more than twenty, I should say”, the nobleman said. “If that. She was painfully thin; there was nothing to her. And her hair was unusual; white blond. Why do you ask?”

“I am thinking that a less direct approach might yield better results”, I smiled. “With possibly just the hint of a threat!”

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Watson was most annoyed when I said that I could not have him with me when I made my next call.

“I would like to”, I said, “but I can hardly say that national security is at stake and have you writing down everything for possible future publication, can I?”

He pouted again. He really had to stop doing that as it was so ado.... so him.

“You will tell me about it afterwards?” he asked.

“Of course”, I said firmly, “although I suspect that this case may not be written up for some time, if ever. It all depends on what that dancer had beneath their nightshirt.”

He stared at me in confusion. He was so..... no.

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My friend Miss St. Leger was I knew currently involved in a most important matter for the government and, although I was sure that she would have made time for me I did not wish to put her to any trouble especially as she was also currently dealing with the unpleasant Randall (I may or may not have hoped for her to have had something sharp on her when he invariably tried something on). I instead went to Mr. Craig Trent whose agency was involved with the hiring of temporary servants. As part of his job he also knew a lot about the people who employed his services, in many cases rather more than they would have wished. I had assisted him over a couple of minor matters in recent years so he was fortunately inclined to be of assistance to me. This was doubly fortunate as he came close to Inspector MacDonald over a general dislike of humanity (which considering the way that many of his employees were treated was In his case quite understandable) and would therefore not have welcomed Watson's presence. 

I missed having my friend with me.

“Lady Evita Coopersale?” he said with a visible shudder. “Ye Gods, what a woman! I made an extra donation in Church for the Good Lord's allowing that I be absent when she called on my services last; my poor deputy Wilson would not speak to me for days after being talked at by her. Thank God he is teetotal or he would have pickled his liver by now. As for her just as dreadful daughters.... _indeed!”_

I smiled at that.

“I would like to know if you provided any staff for her recent ball”, I said. “On a related note, what you know about her current servants?”

“I had to pay extra to persuade three of my people to attend that event”, he said. “Word of how terrible they are has as you might expect gotten around the serving class, few of whom are _that_ desperate for money even in this day and age. Her current staff I do not know as much of as I perhaps should; unfortunately she and her daughters are so ghastly that the turnover is much higher than usual, even in a city like London. Tizard, Lord Coopersale is, as I am sure you are aware, on a trading mission to St. Petersburg just now.”

He looked at me meaningfully. He knew as well as I did that Lord Coopersale was spying for our Nation, and possibly even that he was set to shortly move on to Russian Poland. 

“I have been asked by a client to locate a particular servant”, I said. “He saw them at the ball and was entranced by their dancing, but sadly lost sight of them soon after. The person I am looking for would be up to about twenty to twenty-five years of age, of slight build and with white-blond hair. They are, so my client claims, quite attractive.”

Mr. Trent quirked an eyebrow at me. He would not have attained his current eminence had he not seen the obvious about my description. He stood and crossed to a huge filing-cabinet, then looked through it before extracting a large brown file from which he took three sheets of paper.

“It is unlikely to be any of the staff that I sent them, I am afraid”, he said. “The youngest of those was Mary who is thirty although she claims to be twenty-three, and she is of rather solid build to put it politely. She is blond but dies her hair. Peterkin would match the build and hair-colour but he is fifty, and I think the only time that he would ever dance would be to mortify his offspring at their weddings. It definitely cannot be Jane who, although she does not look her thirty-five years, has jet-black hair and moves with all the grace of a constipated elephant, so it must be someone who has no choice but to put up with that dreadful family until they can find something better.”

He ran a long finger down a list of names.

“There is one that stands out”, he said at last, “although they may not be quite what your client is looking for. There is an Alexis Cinderford now some twenty-four years of age, working in the kitchens for as far back as can be traced. I have very little information on them although from the name I might conjecture that Lord Coopersale's Russian connections may be involved as we both know his first wife was Russian. She came over from St. Petersburg and brought several servants with her, so they may be one of them.”

That was most useful as it gave me another avenue of attack that, perhaps foolishly, I had overlooked. I thanked Mr. Trent and promised a generous donation to a charity in his native Golders Green that I knew he supported.

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The Russian connection meant that I might also call on my criminal friend Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov. He had recently had his third son and, by a stroke of good fortune, Watson had been there to assist his usual doctor when they had delivered a healthy boy called Boris. The young crime lord welcomed me and asked how I could help.

“It may be a shot in the dark”, I said, “but I was wondering if you knew anything about Tizard, Lord Coopersale and his family?”

“You mean the fellow spying for England?” Mr. Kuznetsov said laconically (I was not in the least surprised that _he_ knew). “A fair-sized estate along the far side of the Welsh March and a house in London. He married someone from my old homeland but she died soon after, and he then most stupidly remarried to Miss Evita Guttersnipe, acquiring two stepdaughters whom I have more than once longed to push into the Thames. Although if they ever do con some poor gentleman into taking either of them up the aisle, I am sure that their spouse would do it for me sooner rather than later. Your friend the doctor calls them The Terrible Twins.”

I thought wryly that Watson really was awful, no matter how right he was on this one matter.

“He is annoyingly correct in that appellation”, I said, “although he does not need to be told that.”

“He is a very sound fellow”, Mr. Kuznetsov said. “You did not bring him with you today?”

“I went to see someone who does not take well to outsiders”, I explained, “and decided to call here on my way back. Watson said that he called in on you the other day to check on Boris but all was well with him.”

“One of the greediest babies ever”, Mr. Kuznetsov smiled. “I do not know where he puts it because his weight is perfectly normal, yet he is forever demanding to be fed. I hope that Mr. Trent was well, by the way. Let me think for a moment.”

He poured us both another drink before continuing.

“Lord Coopersale's first wife was most definitely a love-match”, he said. “Her father was a rabid xenophobe and bitterly against her marrying a non-Russian, but she won him round although it took her the best part of a year. She died either in childbirth or soon after from complications, I am not sure which. That was over twenty years ago, maybe a little more. He then remained single for some time before he made the terrible error of marrying Lady Evita; I can only think that he must have done something very bad in a previous life to have deserved that!”

 _Watson's bad influence was spreading_ , I thought wryly. The crime lord smiled.

“The Terrible Twins were the result of the future Lady Coopersale's first marriage to a Mr. Edward Cordon”, he said. “A Prussian-Scottish fellow with a terrible bad temper; the shouting matches that he had with her were legendary across society or so I was told. His death was a trifle suspicious in every sense, as he had a heart-attack at dinner and collapsed face first into the trifle. A servant was suspected of engendering the attack through poison and fled before they could be questioned; they were later found floating in the Firth of Forth having been shot, strangled _and_ stabbed; I have to admit that they do things thoroughly North of the Border. There was speculation as there so often is in these cases that he had been employed by Lady Evita and had then been dispatched himself before he could tell on her – she was at her hunting-lodge nearby when it happened - but nothing could be proven and she duly inherited her late husband's wealth. Mr. Cordon's brother Gerhart over in Brandenburg contested the will but lost, although most unusually costs were not awarded against him, which I think says something.”

“What happened to the first wife's child?” I asked. 

He hesitated before answering. 

“They died of consumption aged about nine or ten”, he said. 

He looked pointedly at me. I sighed. I had an uneasy feeling that Lord Mercher might like what I would soon be forced to tell him.

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I returned to Baker Street and told Watson of my findings so far. He swiftly saw my point about my client's likely reaction.

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I have invited one Miss Hilda Sellers to call on us”, I said, “because I think that your presence will make it clear to her just how serious I am over this. She will know that you document my cases and will see that she may be in some danger if she does not co-operate. I am fairly sure as to what has happened and Mr. Kuznetsov has very generously said he can extract our quarry when necessary, but I would like to be one hundred per cent certain, especially given what may result if I am wrong.”

“You are never wrong!” he said loyally.

I thought of my recent abject mishandling of his friend Doctor Nonus Hugh, and again silently thanked the Good Lord for allowing Watson to continue placing me on a far higher pedestal than I deserved. It was a good thing that I was such an inherently modest fellow, or that would surely have gone to my head.

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Mrs. Hilda Sellers was a thin, elderly lady in her early sixties, wearing a severe mauve dress and very much giving the air of starchy efficiency. She would, I thought, have made a good poker player and a notable opponent should she have become a criminal. Especially as she had taken the first step along the criminal path, even if it had been some years back and at least in part inadvertently.

“Let us not beat around the bush”, I said firmly. “I am fully well aware of what you did when you accepted that forged death certificate for the young Master Alexis Coopersale at the Registry Office, and I have evidence of the large sum deposited in your bank account at the time. I know who made that deposit.”

She shuddered slightly but held her poise.

“What do you want, sir?” she said sharply. “You are not threatening me, I hope?”

“You committed a crime”, I said flatly, “and an innocent person suffered greatly as a result. I am going to remedy that. Your own actions were dishonest and immoral but you will one day answer for them to a higher court than any I can expose you to, and I do not doubt that the majority of people in your position would on having been offered such a huge sum of money have swallowed their principles and taken it. I merely require one thing from you; confirmation of the name of the person who paid you.”

“If you have their details”, she said frostily, “then why do you need me?”

I pointed to the sheets of paper on the writing-table.

“When this scandal breaks in the newspapers”, I said, “as it will, the police are quite naturally going to start taking an interest in _your_ role in proceedings. You were dishonest, but I know that you did not fully grasp just what was intended from your accepting that fake certificate, and by the time that you realized what was afoot it was too late to back out.”

“Before you leave here today, you have a choice. If you write the name of your accomplice and then sign this confession of your actions, I will wait three full days before seeing the gentleman which meeting will explode the whole affair across the newspapers. If however you decline then I will send a telegram immediately and the police will be at your door before the day is out. I consider that I am being unwontedly lenient in this matter but as I said, your role was one undertaken at least partly through ignorance, so you shall have this chance.”

She glared at me but did not hesitate, standing and crossing to complete the papers. Then she was gone.

“Would you countersign as a witness please, Watson?” I asked.

“What was all that about?” he asked, doing as I had asked.

“Lord Coopersale's first child, Alexis, did not die”, I explained. “When the nobleman made his fateful second marriage and then had to go to Russia, Lady Coopersale saw her chance. She bribed Miss Sellers into accepting a forged death certificate – someone who had been at the Registry Office as long as she had would have spotted a forgery so she had to be bought off – and told her husband the child had died. They were instead given a new identity and forced into a life of servitude.”

“You let Miss Sellers go?” he asked dubiously.

“Without her confession we only have the bank records”, I said, “and I may have neglected to mention to her that the funds were actually transferred from a joint account. Poor Lord Coopersale himself would therefore have been implicated when the scandal broke which would have been most unfair on him; things will be bad enough for the fellow as it is. Fortunately as I said Mr. Kuznetsov has said he will be able to extract Alexis from the house, so we will do that in three days' time like we promised Miss Sellers and only then have Lord Mercher over.”

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The following day I read in the 'Times' that one of the secretaries at the Registry Office had sold her house and decamped to Germany for no apparent reason. Just as well; she had been watched from the moment that she had left Baker Street.

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Two days later we finally had Lord Mercher over. Mr. Kuznetsov had come through and I had Alexis in my room, ready to meet my client. It was going to be... interesting.

The nobleman arrived early much as I had expected, and the three of us sat down.

“This has been a most interesting case”, I said. “I have indeed found the person you were looking for, my lord and I have them here today. Their name is Alexis.”

Lord Mercher's eyes lit up.

“Where is she?” he demanded rising to his feet.

I crossed to my room and opened the door, then stood back to allow the person the other side of it to come through. A slender young blond fellow emerged, looking somewhere between nervous and terrified. Lord Brecknock baulked.

“You are a boy!” he said accusingly. 

That was a little unfair, I thought. Alexis Cinderford was as tall as the nobleman but years of poor living and worse treatment had led to him having a form that was not far short of skeletal. Fortunately Watson had, on checking him over earlier, confirmed that there was nothing wrong with him that good living and decent treatment would not remedy.

“Thank you, sir”, the young man said dryly. “In twenty-four summers I may not have noticed that!”

The nobleman blushed but stepped right up to the young fellow. He tilted his head up to look at him, then shook his own head.

“It _is_ you!” he said at last. “I saw you dancing at the ball and you looked almost ethereal. You were so damn beautiful!”

“Alexis is the son of Lord Coopersale from his first marriage”, I explained, “and therefore rightful heir to the estate. His stepmother faked his death while his father was away so that her adopted daughters might inherit then reduced the boy to living among the cinders, hence the name of Master Cinderford. He was only young at the time and doubtless threats were used to prevent him from talking.”

The young man nodded.

“I am sorry that I am not what you were expecting, my lord”, he said quietly. “I am a disappointment to you.”

“Who says I am disappointed?” Lord Mercher said firmly. “You are beautiful whatever you are, and Mr. Holmes found you for me. Come here!”

With that he pulled the startled young man into a fierce hug. Alexis froze for a moment, then seemed to melt into the nobleman's arms.

That was most definitely an 'aww' from Watson, whatever he later said.

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Postscriptum: Lord Mercher's involvement in matters sped the normally slow processes of the law and young Mr. Alexis Coopersale was restored to his rightful position as heir to his father, who with Luke's help returned sooner than expected to something of a surprise. One of Lord Coopersale's first actions on returning to England was to divorce his wife, who along with her daughters had to serve a considerable time in gaol for their vile actions. All three were released at the same time and I later heard from Mr. Trent that they had been reduced to approaching him for work, an offer which upon brief reflection (as in nanoseconds!) he had decided that he _could_ refuse!

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_Notes:_   
_† A Welsh form of the name 'Mercury'._   
_‡ The short form for Brecknockshire or Breconshire._

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	12. Interlude: In Harness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. The devil may make work for idle hands, but this devil will not be making anything any time soon.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

Grown men do not cry. So I would have to be having words with the maids at all the dust in the place, which had left me sobbing as Benji carried what was left of me into my bedroom and placed me gently on the bed. Even so my poor, abused backside sent a spasm of pain up my back and I yelped.

“Was it too much, sir?” the behemoth said, easing me onto my side as he moved in behind me and slotted effortlessly back inside of me. “You did say it was all right?”

Words were still beyond me but I patted his hand, which he knew was a sign that I was fine with what he had done. Bet had had a fall and, being barely a month out from expecting their next little Jackson-Giles, I had arranged for her to go into hospital as a precaution. Benji coped as well with that sort of stress as he did with formal events (i.e. not at all), and I had not been surprised when he had come round and asked, shyly as ever, if I had the time for him. I would always find the time for my lover, although from the look on his face I had known that he would be letting rip as he always did when he was overly stressed. But I had donned the Panama hat to show that I was ready to take it.

Boy, had I taken it! He had marched me down to my gymnasium and set me up in the harness that had me hanging there with my arse exposed, and then fucked me for what had seemed like half a day! Little wonder that he had slipped in so easily just now; I was so loose that I could have had Balin and Balan both up there. And now I had his strong arms wrapping around me as his huge form embraced my very slightly shorter one.

“I am fine, Benji”, I said, finally managing some speech. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I feel better now, sir”, he said sleepily. “I have to get back to the kids later, but I can have a nap first.”

Within moments he was fast asleep, still holding me tightly in a way that meant I could not leave the bed even if I had wanted to. Not that I wanted to....

Ye Gods, he was fucking me while sleeping! The dog!

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	13. Case 121: The Adventure Of The Dead Man's Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. A letter that goes astray leads to an assassination – yet the dead man manages to name his killer! Holmes is kissed by an attractive young lady but fortunately Watson is not the least bit jealous*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Definitons of 'not the least bit jealous' may vary.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was a most unusual case and it was with some regret that I was unable to publish it at the time. Once again the involvement of a lady – a completely innocent party, I must add – meant that I had to merely document the case and wait, ironically in this instance, for the passage of time. Fortunately her subsequent return to Italy and some scurrilous newspaper speculation surrounding her niece's marriage led to said lady writing to me and asking me to put the true facts of the case to the public – a case in which a dead man contrived to bear witness against his own killer, and Holmes solved a case by winding a watch. 

Or more precisely, by _not_ winding a watch.

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Number Twenty-Seven Golden Hind Avenue was a fairly standard Victorian house in one of the better areas of Camberwell, Surrey, just within walking distance of the City. There had lived in relative harmony the recently-married Mr. and Mrs. Martin Franklyn along with two lodgers, Mr. Julian Willis and Mr. Albert Wales. Until one of them was murdered. 

Or more precisely, assassinated.

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I learned of this case from one of my fellow doctors at the surgery, Hiram Bullivant, as he had been visiting a patient nearby at the time and had stopped to offer his services to the police, who had wisely decided that the closer to death that the body was examined by a professional, the better. He was discussing the affair with myself and Peter Greenwood the morning after, just before we opened the surgery.

“It was all very sad”, he said pulling at his stylized (and, I thought, rather pretentious) short beard. “They had only been married three months, then Mrs. Franklyn comes home from a shopping trip and finds her husband lying dead right there in the living-room! The police think it may have been a contract killing by one of those infernal secret societies, most probably an Italian job. Bloody Eye-ties!”

I smiled to myself. Though half-American, my fellow doctor was often more xenophobic than most Englishmen! But as I had observed, so many foreigners who settled in this country were.

“Why do they think that?” Peter asked.

“There was some weird symbol on the floor”, he said. “Nearly stepped on the thing before the constable stopped me. Sort of like a percentage sign but more detailed; squiggles everywhere. The shooting was execution-style right in the middle of the forehead like you read about in the books. Poor blighter probably had to stand right there and see it coming.”

“Murder in Camberwell”, I sighed. “It is a rough area.”

“To be fair Golden Hind Avenue is in one of the better parts”, Doctor Bullivant said. “I doubt that they will ever find the scum who did it. Odd though....”

He stopped. We both looked at him.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I am just being stupid”, he said dismissively. “It was nothing really.”

“Tell us”, Peter insisted. He hesitated again but gave in.

“I mentioned it to the coppers there”, he said, “and they looked at me as if I had lost the plot. Understandable in the circumstances. But that living-room was the _tidiest_ place I have ever seen in my whole damn life! You know how day-to-day living means there's usually clutter of some sort or other around a place; papers, magazines, nick-knacks? Gertrude is always moaning about what a pig-sty our place is, as if we ever have anyone round. This room was _spotless_ as if it had been professionally cleaned. I don't mean by a maid; they only employ a girl for a few hours each day and she had been in, dusted, laid the fires and left. I mean really, thoroughly, professionally cleaned.”

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I mentioned the mystery of the overly tidy room to Holmes when I got home that evening to a wonderful meal of sausages and mash. Mrs. Hudson had excelled herself again, bless the woman! As I looked round our own main room I was reminded just how right my colleague had been. Even allowing for Holmes's haphazard (non-existent) approach to order the room was pretty much a mess with books and _accoutrements_ all over the place. This was after all how most people lived.

But not, apparently, the Franklyns.

“I shall contact Gregson in the morning and see if he can obtain an introduction to the local sergeant”, Holmes promised, sinking into his chair with a heavy sigh. He had just had an after-dinner bath, and smelled faintly of whatever bath salts he was currently favouring – apple and something herbal, I thought.

“Problems?” I asked.

He fixed me with a look.

“Mrs. Hustings 'just happened to be passing' when I came home”, he said. “It might have been believable had I not stopped at the post-office across the road to send a telegraph and emerged five minutes later to find her in exactly the same spot.”

I shuddered. The Wicked Witch of the West seemed incapable of taking a hint unless she was hit over the head with it. Now there was an idea; surely Holmes knew a few people who....

“Fortunately I did that favour for Mrs. Hart at the flower-shop”, he said, shaking his head at me for some reason, “so I doubled in there, then we came out together and she kissed me in front of the woman.”

I had mixed feelings about that. I was pleased that the harridan had had to see Holmes with someone else but not that he went round kissing other women even if they were happily married with three children. Plus that sly smile of his was damnably annoying; he could not know what I was thinking all the damn time!

He was nodding as he read his book. _And he could stop with that as well, damn him!_

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The following morning after a delicious breakfast that may or may not have involved the involuntary transfer of certain rashers of bacon from my plate to that of someone else, we set out for Camberwell. Our guide to the scene of the crime was Constable Fabian Carnarvon, a fresh-faced fellow who was far too young-looking, ridiculously tall (did they grow young policemen in fertilizer these days?) but good-natured enough. Gregson had warned us that while Sergeant Alders had no objection to Holmes taking an interest in the case, he was not going to put himself about to help, although I was sure that he would put himself about swiftly enough if there was any credit to be taken for solving the case! Constable Carnarvon was there as he was the local bobby and had also been the first one on the scene.

I could see immediately what my fellow doctor had meant about the living-room. Apart from the rolled-up rug on which the red stain of the deceased was clearly visible, the place was spotless. It was indeed _too_ tidy. 

“I had received a call from Mrs. Branch at Number Twenty-Nine next door, sirs”, the constable said. “She and her husband had been visiting their sister in Chiswick all last week and they arrived back to find the postman had left them a note saying that there was a letter waiting that needed to be signed for by a 'Mr. Wiles'. She guessed, correctly as it turned out, that someone had written the number either untidily or incorrectly and that it was actually for one of the lodgers next door, although as their names are similar she could not work out which one. She informed Mr. Franklyn, and as his bank is near to the post-office where it had been taken he called and signed for it as the house owner.”

“I am surprised that the post-office handed it over”, I said. I had had dealings with our Baker Street branch of that organization and to call them overly fussy would be like describing the Atlantic Ocean as moderately damp. They had made me feel like a criminal and all that effort had only obtained for me a poorly-addressed bill that had not even been for me!

“Mr. Franklyn returned home that evening”, the constable continued. “At half-past five; we know the time because he called in on Mrs. Branch to thank her for telling him about the letter and she remembered the clock striking as he left. She also noted that he seemed rather upset although she thought that was because of the quarrel with his wife.”

“They did not get on?” Holmes asked.

“He wanted to have children immediately while she wanted to wait a couple of years”, he explained. “Otherwise Mrs. Branch – I should not say it but she is the sort to hold a glass to the wall – would surely know.”

I thought back to the Long Compton 'bird-watcher' Miss Woolworth and her 'excellent binoculars'. Town or country, people were pretty much the same.

“Mr. Franklyn apologized for the mix-up”, the constable continued, “and said that it was because the sender was foreign. They wrote one of them foreign sevens with a line through it and the postman must have read it as a nine. Mrs. Franklyn had been an Eye-tie before she came here, you see.” 

_Another insular Englishman_ , I thought with a smile.

“Of the two lodgers Mr. Wales was already home at this time but Mr. Willis did not return until half an hour later, according to their statements”, the constable said. “Mrs. Branch, who was not spying on them at all, confirms Mr. Willis's time of return but she can only say that Mr. Wales was there at least forty minutes before him as she saw him in his room 'when she happened to take a walk down to her gate'. Mrs. Franklyn had gone shopping after which she had attended a church event at the local homeless shelter and did not return home until just after eight; she heard the town clock striking the hour as she walked down the road.”

“She did not take a cab?” I asked, surprised.

“She and a friend, Mrs. Gale, took a cab that dropped them off at the end of the road. Her friend lived at Number Five so it was easier for Mrs. Franklyn to get out with her rather than be driven a few dozen yards, especially as it was not raining or anything. Mrs. Gale confirmed her story; she stood at her own door and watched until Mrs. Franklyn reached hers, just in case. It was not dark yet and this is a safe area of the town.”

 _It had been_ , I thought wryly.

“Mrs. Franklyn entered the house”, the constable continued, “and almost immediately found her husband lying dead in the living-room. He had been shot, a single bullet to the centre of the forehead.”

“An execution-style shooting”, Holmes muttered. The policeman nodded.

“That and the weird mark on the floor suggests as much”, he agreed. “One more thing. Mrs. Branch says she saw Mr. Franklyn in the back garden not long after he left her, about five minutes she thinks. She thought that he might be picking some flowers for his wife as he was carrying something when he went back inside. She mentioned it because she knew that he disliked gardening, it being his wife's passion.”

Holmes nodded and I noted that he was staring at the mantle-piece above the fire. It boasted two small and rather ugly matching green-and-white decorated perfume bottles, a brass bell, an ornate but obviously cheap snuff-box, and in the middle a plain glass vase containing some tall herbs.

“He picked _herbs_ for his wife?” my friend observed, frowning. “That seems an odd choice.”

“She keeps a herb garden out the back”, the constable explained. “I thought that might be why the fire was lit in summer, you see; there's a paint factory in the next street and sometimes it smells a bit. Burning scented stuff makes the room smell better; my wife does that as we live just the other side of the place. Though I wonder why he plonked them in like that; he could surely have put a few flowers in there?”

I wondered at that fire. Perhaps that was the reason for the overly-tidy room; the killer had found something among the clutter and had lit the fire to destroy it.

“Do we have the letter?” Holmes asked.

“Yes”, the constable said. “It was in the shed, of all places; I suppose the victim must have taken it with him when he did his gardening and forgotten it there.”

 _Too busy worrying about his herbs_ , I thought. The constable handed us the letter and Holmes unfolded it:

_'Keep watching. If you like, we'll linger near Hayes, or Iver Park maybe. Happening nearby mate, on this Wednesday._   
_Nick'_

Well, it was obvious. Not!

“I would also like to see the body of the dead man”, Holmes said, “if that is at all possible.”

The constable grinned.

“My sergeant does not think much of your work, sir”, he admitted, “but he knows that you always deal fairly with the police wherever you go. We can go see the late Mr. Franklyn now.”

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Martin Franklyn had been a good-looking young man I thought sadly, cut down in his prime. The constable shuffled his feet nervously behind us and I decided there was little more to learn here before leading the way out of the room.

“Doctor Bullivant said that he thought something was off about the room, sir”, the constable said as we trooped into a small room. “Too clean, he said.”

“As if it had been ransacked by a thief with a tidiness fetish!” I muttered.

“That may not be too far from the truth”, Holmes said mysteriously. “Tell us more about the four people who lived there, constable.”

The policeman flipped open his notebook.

“Mr. Martin Franklyn, twenty-seven, a junior manager at Carson's Bank near Southwark Cathedral”, he said. “His employers say that he was a most conscientious worker which was why he achieved promotion at so young an age. Last year he was selected to accompany the general manager Mr. Frederick Bruce over to Italy, where the bank was looking to establish an office by taking over a small local bank there. That was when he met Miss Anna-Maria Fiori; she worked as a teller at the bank they were looking to buy.”

“Did the deal go through?” Holmes asked abruptly. The constable looked surprised but checked his notes.

No, sir”, he said eventually. “Mr. Franklyn paid an unannounced follow-up visit four months back and uncovered certain irregularities on the Italian bank's balance sheets. That was also when he persuaded Miss Fiori to accept his hand in marriage and they returned to England together; they had been in communication with each other since his first visit. They were married a month later.”

"I am surprised that he had his own house for one so young", I observed.

"I wondered about that too, sir", the constable said, "but there's no mystery there. His reclusive uncle died and left a large sum of money to his three nieces, including Mr. Franklyn's late mother. The other two had both died without having any children of their own, so his mother copped the lot. She was well off enough already with her husband's money so she passed most of it to her son, the lucky sod."

“His wife?” Holmes asked.

“Very little known about her, being a foreigner” the constable said, sounding distrustful. “She was liked in the area, though, and as I am sure you know not all foreigners are. As I said she did charity work and fitted in well enough.”

“Tell us about the lodgers, please”, Holmes said.

“Mr. Albert Wales moved in two and a half months ago”, the policeman said. “He is forty-seven and walks with a limp due to a childhood injury that has never fully healed. He works as a clerk at Lloyd's Bank; it has dealings with Carson's which was how Mr. Franklyn met him. He has the larger of the two back rooms. He is incredibly timid; I swear that when I was questioning him about the murder I thought that he was going to faint!”

“Mr. Julian Willis moved in just over a month back. He is thirty-one, visiting London for a time 'on business'. Quite what that business is he declined to say but his name has come up at the station in connection with a tobacco smuggling operation out of the docks. I had the impression – and I may be doing him an injustice here – that Mr. Willis was not that surprised at his landlord's murder. He said that perhaps he upset the Cosy Noster while he was in Italy. I think he may be Italian and all, though he never said as much.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“The Italian bank was in Florence, sir”, the constable said. “But when I was interviewing him he called it by its Italian name, Firenze or some such. I went and checked it because I thought that he was referring to somewhere else.”

“Well spotted, constable”, Holmes smiled. “Is it possible to speak with Mrs. Franklyn?” 

“Of course, sir”, the constable said. “She did say to visit her anytime, and I am sure that she would not mind answering any questions that you may have.”

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Mrs. Franklin had moved into a friend's house after the tragedy and it was there, in a horrendous Gothic monstrosity that should never have been allowed within a thousand miles of Brixton, that we met her. She answered our questions readily enough but there seemed to be nothing new that could be learned from her. Until finally Holmes asked her if there was anything she might care to add herself. She hesitated just fractionally before saying no and we both saw it. My friend gently pressed her to tell us.

“It is probably nothing”, she said, “but there was the matter of dear Martin's watch.”

“What about it?” Holmes asked.

“He had two watches”, she explained. “A cheap thing that he wore every day and that I purchased for him in Italy when his old everyday watch broke, and a second much older one that he got from his grandfather, which was quite valuable. He always kept that watch locked in his writing-desk and never wore it in public, not even for special occasions. But when the constable handed me back the things that he had had on him when they took the... him away, it was his grandfather's watch that had been in his pocket.”

“In his pocket but not on his chain?” Holmes pressed.

“No, sir. I asked and they said that it was loose; the chain was one of those that clip and lock on so it would have been easy for him to attach it, although why he had been wearing it in the first place I have no idea. He had always said that it was far too valuable to wear out, even on special occasions. There was no sign of my watch either, although perhaps he put it somewhere.”

“Where did he keep the valuable watch as a rule?” Holmes asked.

“In his writing-desk”, she said. “Now you mention it, perhaps he swapped them over for some reason and the cheap one is in there now. I did not think to check.”

“I am surprised that he did not keep something so valuable in a safer place”, I observed. She smiled at me.

“It is safer than you think”, she said. “The centre-left draw with a small cross on its handle is one of those that turns as it opens. Only when it is fully open _and_ locked into position can you then press down the back and pull it out further, gaining access to a secret compartment. You have to reach right back; when Martin showed it to me I could not reach it with my small hands and had to use a knitting-needle. The watch was kept in the secret compartment.”

“Very clever”, Holmes said. “Thank you for your patience at such a difficult time, madam. We shall of course keep you fully apprised of our findings should there be any, and I shall make sure that this is returned to you as soon as possible. Which reminds me, do you have the other items that were found on him?”

“They are still in the bag that the policeman gave me”, she said, shuddering at the memory. “I locked them into the writing-desk and left them at the house; I did not want.....”

“We fully understand”, my friend cut in. “Madam, I believe that it is important for us to see those items and that watch. May we have permission to enter your house and examine them?”

“Of course”, she said. 

She opened her reticule and extracted a small key which she handed to my friend. We made our farewells and left.

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I was somewhat surprised if not a little worried when Holmes asked me if I had brought my revolver (I had). Since he wanted to meet the two lodgers at the house and it was still early afternoon we went to my favourite little restaurant in Trafalgar Square for a late lunch, and after spending some time in the National Gallery returned to Camberwell just before six. Constable Carnarvon was in the kitchen talking to the two lodgers and I thought that Holmes was going to question them at once, but he seemed to change his mind after only a few seconds and after a brief aside with the constable he shepherded me into the living-room.

We found Mr. Franklyn's secret compartment easily enough although even Holmes with his long fingers had to stretch to activate the secret compartment. Inside was an obviously cheap pocket watch and a winding-key. I was about to reach forward when my friend stayed my hand.

“Observe”, he muttered.

I looked, but I saw only a watch and a key. 

“What?” I asked.

“The dust”, he said moving out of the light from the window.

I looked again, and this time I saw it. The watch lay in one half of the tiny extra space while the hole in the dust that it should have left lay in the other half. Holmes had opened the drawer carefully so he could not have jarred it across. 

My friend took both items out and added them to the late Mr. Franklyn's belongings that we had taken out of the bag. Apart from the house keys (which Mrs. Franklyn had shown us and kept) and the cheap watch, they consisted of the following:  
A wallet containing eleven shillings and sixpence farthing†.  
A small photograph of Mrs. Franklyn inside the wallet.  
A band of five (business) calling cards for the dead man.  
A receipt for a medium-value tie purchased from a store in London.  
A laundry bill marked 'paid'.  
A set of three keys one of which was the same as the writing-desk key.  
A handkerchief initialled with an 'M'.  
A small notebook, empty, with a small pencil.  
A railway season ticket, return to the City.

“It is not much for a human life”, I observed ruefully.

Holmes nodded and looked thoughtfully across at the hearth where the dead man had been found. And it was then that I saw the light come on in his eyes.

“What?” I demanded.

He shook his head and picked up the expensive watch and the winding-key that had lain beside it. He tried to wind the watch, but the key did not fit.

“But why?” I asked. “Unless that is the key to the other watch?”

Holmes tried the key to the expensive watch in the cheap one. It fitted perfectly. He wound it a little then took it out, waiting for the watch to start up again.

Except that it did not. I stared at it in confusion. My friend smiled knowingly and pulled out his pocket-knife, using it to gently lever the back of the cheap watch open. Inside was a small folded piece of paper. He extracted it, read it and then leaned over and whispered something to me.

I nodded.

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We were back in the kitchen.

“Gentlemen, thank you for sparing me some of your precious time”, Holmes smiled at the two lodgers. “I am pleased to tell you that the killer of Mr. Martin Franklyn will very soon be arrested.”

Mr. Wales blinked in surprise at the news although Mr. Willis seemed to take it more calmly.

“Excellent!” the latter beamed. “Who was it?”

Holmes had walked round the table at this point and was behind the taller lodger as he spoke. Without warning he suddenly had a pair of handcuffs on the shocked man just as I took out my gun and pointed it at him. Mr. Willis stared for a moment, then chuckled.

“I think you will find that your English courts need something called _evidence_ , Mr. Holmes”, he said silkily.

“I have it, sir”, Holmes smiled. “The very best evidence that there could possibly be. A signed note from the murdered man stating that you, Mr. Julian Willis, had been ordered to kill him.”

Mr. Willis wrenched at the handcuffs but they held firm.

“You lie!” he spat out. Holmes took a chair and smiled at him.

“Mr. Franklyn knew that he was doomed from the moment he saw the letter that had gone astray”, he said. “I do not know what he did back in Italy, but what is important is that he upset someone there who had the power to have him killed. From the delay I believe that the man ordering the killing could not be one hundred per cent sure of Mr. Franklyn's 'guilt' in the matter, so he arranged for you to move in and you were instructed to wait for the final order to kill. ”

“What did the letter mean?” the constable asked. “It made no sense.”

“It would have done to someone expecting it”, Holmes explained. “Take the first letter of ever other word and you get the short but explicit message 'kill him now'.”

Our captive wrenched again at his cuffs but they still held firm. I held my gun steady and he glowered at me. Mr. Wales had very wisely shuffled his chair well away from his murderous co-tenant and was almost out of the door into the hallway.

“Unfortunately for you, the person who addressed your instructions wrote the number seven so untidily that the postman misread it as a nine and delivered it next door”, Holmes continued. “The machinations of Providence meant that it then fell into the hands of Mr. Franklyn. He suspected that you were the killer as he knew for a fact that Mr. Wales here had never left England, while the purpose of your stay in London is somewhat mysterious. He also knew that his time in this world was short. If he tried to hide the letter then there would certainly be a second one ordering you to kill him; indeed one might already be on its way since the man ordering the killing would no doubt be puzzled as to why he had not received confirmation that his orders had been carried out. Mr. Franklyn's only thought was to make sure that his killer – you - paid for your crime.”

“He faced one very obvious problem, however. If he tried to leave any sort of message indicating your guilt, he knew that you would likely find and destroy it. So what did he do? He went gardening.”

“What?” the constable exclaimed. “Why?”

Holmes smiled.

“That was the first clue”, he said. “The herbs in the vase looked ordinary enough to our killer here but they are in fact _thyme_ \- a most unusual choice for a vase and therefore an indication as to where Mr. Franklyn planned to leave his letter accusing Mr. Willis. He then swapped over the two watches – _but not the winding-keys_ – and placed the accusatory note in the mechanism of the hidden cheaper watch. He hoped, correctly as it turned out, that it might be noted that he wore 'the wrong watch'. He then locked the cheaper watch with the wrong winding-key in his writing-desk, deliberately moving it across so as to leave a dust mark which will further arouse suspicion if found. Finally he copied out the letter and leaves the copy in the shed – he knew that it was unlikely you would check there once you had the original - then placed the latter in the letter-rack for you to collect.”

“You found and acted on the letter, and Mr. Martin Franklyn met his end calmly. But it was then that you made your other mistake. Fearing that he may have been forewarned by the delay – the date on the postmark would have told you that the letter took far too long to arrive - you searched both him and the room thoroughly. You were wise enough to leave on his person the detritus that most men carry around with them but in searching the room you made a point of replacing everything where it should be and dusting away any prints. The attending doctor was quite correct when he said that the room felt _too_ clean. You checked your victim's watch along with everything else but did not find anything – for the letter accusing you was folded into the back of his cheaper watch, hidden in the secret compartment of his writing-desk.” 

The cuffed man snarled at him. Holmes produced the folded piece of paper that he had extracted from the watch and read it. 

“'Julian Willis is about to murder me. Signed, Martin Franklyn.' You were quite correct sir, English courts do most rightly demand a high level of proof before they dispatch someone to the gallows. But I think that a signed note from the victim might just meet those requirements.”

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Postscriptum: Perhaps predictably Mr. Willis did not make it to the gallows. While being held before his trial he was stabbed to death by another inmate in an apparently motiveless attack; his 'employers' had obviously decided that they dare not risk his talking in an effort to save his wretched life. Those who live by the sword so often die by it.

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_Notes:_   
_† About £63 ($79) at 2020 prices._

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	14. Case 122: The Adventure Of The Nonpareil Knave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. In a society where honour is everything (as a certain doctor will shortly find out to his cost), someone who cheats at cards is truly beyond the pale. Holmes has to solve a case involving a secretive London club, where something missing from a man's coat proves decisive in establishing his guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic mention of suicide.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

There were times when I felt truly sorry for Mrs. Hudson, our illustrious landlady. The rag-tag assortment of humanity that came to her house to seek the services of the capital's greatest detective must often times have sorely tried even her infinite patience but she never complained (although it should be added that Holmes and I paid a good rate for our rooms and always on time). So when she met us returning from lunch at a nearby restaurant one Saturday in early autumn I wondered as to what strange specimen of humanity had descended upon our rooms this time.

“There is a young lady to see you, gentlemen”, she said. “A very young lady, around seventeen years of age I would judge. She arrived about fifteen minutes ago and says that she has travelled all the way from Cheltenham to seek your services in a matter of great urgency.”

“We had better not keep the young lady all the way from Cheltenham waiting, then”, Holmes said. “Mrs. Hudson, would you please be so good as to send up some tea and cakes? Our guest must have dined in her travels but I am sure that she would appreciate some refreshment.”

She nodded and returned to her room while we ascended the stairs.

“How do you know that she has dined in her travels?” I asked curiously.

“Consider the time”, he said. “She would have travelled from Cheltenham to either Oxford or Bristol, so she took two trains. The earliest that she could arrive would therefore have been around ten o' clock but in that case she would have come straight to us given the stated importance of the matter. So she left later and realized that we might be at lunch upon her arrival, hence she would take her own sustenance and then come to see us.”

“How can you know that she did not catch an earlier train?” I demanded. “Surely there are some?”

“There are”, he said, “but she would first have to get to the station from the renowned Ladies' College in that spa town. I very much doubt that they would have been happy with her departing at such an ungodly hour.”

“You cannot know that she comes from there!” I protested. He turned and fixed me with those impossibly blue eyes.

“I am psychic then, doctor”, he said dryly. “That, or unlike your good self I observed the college hat on the hat-stand when we entered.”

 _Smug bastard_ I thought as I followed him up the stairs. 

I was sure that I caught him muttering something under his breath. It sounded like 'with good reason'. Harrumph!

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Mrs. Hudson had been right about our guest who was indeed around seventeen years of age. She was a charming young lady with a pleasant face and ringed brown hair. As well as a small reticule she had today's newspaper in her gloved hand.

“My name is Miss Elizabeth Forrester”, she said in a melodious voice, “and I have come down from Gloucestershire to see if I can obtain your services on a most serious matter, Mr. Holmes. I should say at the start that I have little in the way of funds with which to recompense your efforts, but I hope and pray that you will at least hear me out.”

Holmes smiled.

“As I am sure you are well aware”, he said, “I take cases for a variety of reasons only one of which is the financial. If your case is of sufficient interest then we shall see what we shall see.”

She nodded.

“Have you read the newspaper today?” she asked.

“The doctor has I am sure looked at the social pages”, he remarked slyly, moving well out of swatting range. I scowled at him even if it was perhaps true that I may have briefly glanced at said pages for a mere moment or two earlier on. Only because there had been little to catch my eye on the front page.

“It is a story from those pages that brings me to your door, sir”, she said. “The scandal at the Nonpareil Club.”

“I did read of that”, I said ignoring the slight cough from a certain wiseacre in the room who ran the risk of not getting any bacon the rest of this week. “Colonel Jeremiah Upwood stands accused of cheating at cards. A most serious accusation.”

“My family lives opposite the Upwoods in the town of Lee, in Kent”, she explained. “The colonel's youngest son Cecil is the same age as myself; we have grown up together. I should tell you that is fully my intention to marry him when he comes of age.”

I blinked at her forthrightness. 

“Does he concur with your schedule?” Holmes asked politely.

“He does”, she said (I thought wryly that the unknown Mr. Upwood's compliance was likely neither here nor there; the fellow was as good as up the aisle already!). “We write to each other on a weekly basis but his letter did not arrive yesterday, which concerned me as he is as a rule extremely punctilious. I had thought that it might be a delay in the general post rare though such an event is, but a telegram arrived last night with news of the scandal. He is of course devastated.”

I saw all too swiftly the unspoken truth behind her words. Like with my own traitorous grandfather, if such an accusation stuck to the colonel then his son would inevitably be tarnished along with him. It was cruel but it was the way of the world, and it would make our charming visitor's plans to marry Mr. Cecil Upwood all but impossible.

“This would be a very difficult investigation, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “From what I have read the Nonpareil Club is one of the most secretive in London, and since Cecil himself is not a member I doubt that you will be able to gain access to undertake any inquiries there.”

Holmes seemed to hesitate for some reason.

“I do not wish to assume the worst”, he said gently, “but have you considered the fact that the colonel might actually be guilty in this matter?”

“Absolutely not!” she said, almost angrily. “He is a lovely old gentleman and such a thing would be _totally_ out of character!”

I smiled inwardly at her vehemence.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Holmes asked.

“I intend to travel onto Lee and hope to catch Cecil there”, she said. “I shall then spend the night at my parents' house and return to college late tomorrow. In case you were wondering I have alerted my form tutor as to my plans and she gave me her full support, which went so far as to arrange a lift to the station for me after breakfast. I shall of course have to catch up on the lessons that I miss but that is not an issue just now; the college knows that I will not let things fall behind.” 

“We will accompany you to Lee”, Holmes said firmly. “We shall take this case.”

She looked surprised at her success, then smiled in relief.

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The town of Lee was served by the South Eastern Railway from Charing Cross. During the journey our client made a small confession.

“I fully appreciate that you need all the facts for your investigation Mr. Holmes”, she said, “so I am going to tell you something that is not in what you may call my future father-in-law's best interests. This is not the first time that Cecil's family has been involved in such a scandal. I am sure that others will rush to apprise you of this fact, especially given some of the newspapers these days.”

“Pray continue”, Holmes said politely.

“Six years ago the Colonel's nephew, Captain Reuben Upwood, was accused of cheating at cards in a club somewhere in India”, she said. “It later emerged that the accuser had himself planted the marked cards in his jacket, an act seen by a native servant who only came forward some way into the trial. Captain Upwood was totally exonerated but you know how the press is these days. They are bound to say that it runs in the family, that there is no smoke without fire....”

“All the old _canards_ that sell copies”, Holmes said wryly. “That may be important information, regardless. Do you know what happened to the fellow who accused him, or to the captain for that matter?”

“No”, she said, “but Cecil would know. He knows all that sort of thing.”

Holmes nodded and we continued our journey in silence. On reaching Lee we went first to Colonel Upwood's home and were admitted by a dour-faced servant who told us that the colonel was staying at a friend's house in London but that the young master was home and would receive us. We had barely sat down when Mr. Cecil Upwood himself entered. 

I try to avoid judging by first impressions (accurate as they so often are with my patients) but I have to say that I liked the boy at once. Despite the heavy load that had undoubtedly fallen on the shoulders of someone not yet a man he held himself erect and had an open, honest face. He was also clearly both surprised and happy to see his near-neighbour - and soon to be wife! - and greeted her warmly. Though when she introduced us by name I saw a guarded look appear on his face.

“Eliza dearest”, he said quietly, “is this wise?”

“We _must_ have the truth, Cecil”, she said firmly. “Your dear father cannot live his life under a cloud of suspicion and poisonous whispers. Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson can find out what really happened. Please?”

She gave him a beseeching look that was almost Holmes-esque in its 'kicked puppy value, and I could see him fold at once. It really was pathetic how whipped some men were these days and... and that was most definitely a judgemental silence from someone who was definitely not getting any of my bacon tomorrow! 

I was getting delusional in my.... early middle age.

“I shall go across and tell my parents that I am here for an unexpected visit”, Miss Forrester said, “and you can tell our friends here as much as you know.”

“Barrett is coming over any time now”, he told her. “Lieutenant Barrett Easton from my father's old regiment and one of the fellows there when it happened. Have dinner with your parents dearest, then come over and talk to me later.”

She kissed him in a sisterly fashion then left us. The door had barely closed behind her before the bell was ringing and a few moments later Lieutenant Easton was admitted. He was in his mid-twenties with eyes almost as blue as Holmes's and a shock of well-groomed fair hair. Introductions were made and we all sat down, dinner being not due for another half an hour.

“This is very bad”, Lieutenant Easton said frankly. “I do not want to think the worst Cecil, but facts are facts.”

“Facts may be misleading”, Holmes said crisply. “Pray tell us exactly what happened on the day in question. Omit nothing no matter how trivial it may seem to your good self.”

Thus prompted the young soldier began his tale.

“Colonel Upwood, myself, Lord Franks and Mr. Barclay meet every Tuesday at the Club for a set of rummy”, he said sipping the drink that our host had poured for him. “Each of us takes a turn to bring cards and chips.”

“Why not use those provided by the Club?” I asked.

“One of the rules of the building is that they are not allowed to _supply_ anything that could be used for gambling”, he explained. “Rather an odd rule I always think as there is no actual prohibition on gambling on the premises, but when the building was left to the founders of the Club as a bequest about thirty years back that was one of the conditions. On this night Lord Franks supplied the chips and the colonel brought the cards.”

“Tell us about the other two players before you go any further, if you please”, Holmes said. 

“Ferdinando - Lord Franks - is about sixty and very pro-military”, the lieutenant said with a smile. “He sits as a cross-bencher in the House of Lords and often speaks up for greater military spending. He is a good friend to the colonel and lives in Chislehurst, not far from here.”

“Mr. Barclay?” Holmes asked. The soldier hesitated.

“Ned Barclay is about forty-five, a businessman who has several properties in the Lee area”, he said, and I noted that this second gentleman did not elicit a smile as the first had done. “He lives in one of them but I do not know which one. I believe that he did make an offer to buy this house but it was refused as he wished to knock it down and replace it with smaller houses for commuters. As you may have noticed south London is a lot less developed than the lands north of Old Father Thames, but the way that the city is growing, that will not last long.”

“He did”, Mr. Upwood confirmed. “I do not think that he minded being turned down though; he had another thing going somewhere out Gravesend way soon after, or so he said.”

“Still motive”, I muttered darkly. Holmes smiled at me.

“Always the cynic, doctor”, he chided before turning back to the lieutenant. “Tell us who arrived at the Club and at what time.”

“I only know that Mr. Barclay and Lord Franks were there when we arrived”, he said. “Also, they must have been there only a short time as one of them had sent for coffee; it arrived moments after we did. The colonel and I got there at virtually the same time; we handed in our coats and joined them.”

“You did not travel to the club together?” Holmes asked.

“No sir. He came from the barracks about a mile to the east and I from the Gallery, which lies about half a mile to the west. We both walked; I know that his doctor had proscribed more exercise after he had had some minor health problem a year back. Nothing serious; it was more a preventative measure.”

“That is true”, Mr. Upwood agreed. “He has taken to walking down to fetch the newspaper every day.”

“Did any of you leave the room at all after your arrival?” Holmes asked.

“Mr. Barclay and I both used the water closet but that is a dead-end room off ours. No-one else left until I dropped a card – the knave of diamonds - and noticed markings on the back when I picked it up. Lord, I wish that I had kept my stupid mouth shut!”

“Was the colonel ahead at the time?” Holmes asked.

“A little”, the lieutenant conceded, rather reluctantly I thought. “We had only been playing for about half an hour or thereabouts.”

“Miss Forrester was kind enough to tell of of a scandal surrounding a cousin of yours”, Holmes said to Mr. Upwood. “I believe over a similar event?”

Our host groaned.

“Eliza should not have mentioned that!” he grumbled.

“Someone was bound to, Cecil”, Lieutenant Easton said. “Truth will out, especially once the newspapers get their teeth into a story. You know what they are like.”

“Can you tell me anything about your cousin's accuser?” Holmes asked.

“A Lieutenant Patrick Maudit who took his own life when his lies were exposed”, Mr. Upwood said bitterly. “Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

Holmes frowned.

“You do not happen to know where this man came from?” he asked.

“Northamptonshire, I suppose”, our host said. “His county regiment was the Second Regulars; I do not believe that they take people from outside their own county. Easton is from Buckinghamshire, next door.”

“It happened in British India”, the lieutenant said. “It made quite a few ripples at the time; it was the talk of my barracks in Surrey as both my and the Northamptonshire crew had men out there, and with this wonderful telegraphic system gossip can now fly around the world. Sorry though I am to say it Cecil, but your detective friend should know the truth. The general opinion was that the whole thing was a whitewash and that your father used his influence to get his nephew cleared. That turned out to be wrong of course but that was what people _thought_ , especially in the barracks. It did not help matters that Reuben got killed barely six months later in a native uprising, which of course made everyone go on about karma and other such claptrap.”

“Do I not know it!” our host said sourly.

We were interrupted by the arrival of a servant who whispered something to out host that caused him to excuse himself for a moment. As soon as he was gone Holmes leaned over to the soldier. 

“There is one further matter that I would value your opinion on, Lieutenant”, he said with a disarming smile. 

I flinched inwardly. He always used that tone just before a major strike. 

“Of course sir”, he said.

“Your opinion on Miss Forrester?”

The lieutenant looked like he had been shot, and though he strove to recover we had both seen it.

“She has an Understanding with Cecil”, he said angrily. “She does not know how I feel, and if you are both gentlemen you will endeavour to keep it that way!”

We were precluded from any further conversation by our host's return. One look at his face told us he had not received good news. He was as white as a sheet.

“What is it?” the lieutenant asked anxiously.

Mr. Upwood sat down heavily on his chair and stared blankly into the fire.

“That was the police”, he said at last. “Father just blew his brains out at Ronald's house!”

I was shocked. Holmes rose slowly to his feet.

“This has now become a murder investigation”, he said gravely. “Doctor, you and I must go to the Nonpareil Club as a matter of urgency.”

“They will not admit you, sir”, the lieutenant said firmly. “Do you wish me to come?”

“They will when I tell them the alternative”, Holmes said grimly. “Mr. Upwood, my sincerest apologies on your bereavement but if we are to apprehend the man responsible for your father's death we must move quickly.”

Our host seemed to come to his senses.

“You think that he may flee the country?” he asked.

“I wish this matter dealt with”, Holmes said, and I noted the slight evasion. “The sooner the better. The doctor and I will return here when we have news, I promise you.”

He bowed and swept from the room. I followed as quickly as I could.

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We detoured briefly via Baker Street for some reason but Holmes told me to wait in the cab and he was only inside for a couple of minutes before we resumed our journey. 

Lieutenant Easton had been right about our reception at the Nonpareil Club; it was about as cold as the Arctic Ocean. Two large footmen almost immediately tried to usher us out only to be sent backwards by punches from Holmes. For all that he had the musculature of a hat-stand, he could deal a heavy blow when needed.

“Unless your employers wish the bulk of the capital's constabulary to fall on this building”, he said firmly, “they _will_ permit this visit.”

A smartly-dressed man hurried out from a back room at all the commotion and introduced himself as Mr. Clayton Paul, the day manager. Once it was made clear that Holmes merely wished to talk to the cloakroom attendant who had been on duty that night and to then see the scene of the crime, he grumpily acquiesced and we were shown into a small side-room. Some little time later, a balding and smartly-dressed fellow in his mid-forties wearing the club uniform came in. 

“Mr. Orpen Doncaster, sir”, he said. “You wished to see me, sirs?”

Holmes gestured for the fellow to sit down.

“I wish to ask you a few questions, Mr. Doncaster”, he said, his voice low and menacing, “but before I do, it is both just and fair that I impress upon your good self the seriousness of the situation as it stands at this precise moment in time. Because of the allegations made against him Colonel Jeremiah Upwood committed suicide this afternoon, and as I believe that he was driven to that most desperate act I am now investigating a case of murder most foul. I am sure that I need not remind you about the importance of accuracy when it comes to testimony in such a case. Judges, in my long experience, tend to take a very dim view of people whose recall is less than perfect or who only remember certain details late on in an investigation. They also think that a _long_ period of time in a gaol cell would improve said person's memory no end!”

The man was already sweating.

“I have one main question to ask you”, Holmes said, “but I need _details_. Every single little detail; nothing is too unimportant. I wish to know exactly what happened when the four gentlemen in that room arrived at the Club that day.”

Mr. Doncaster nodded and thought hard.

“Mr. Barclay arrived first sir but I don't remember the time. I'm sorry.”

Holmes smiled reassuringly.

“The time itself is probably not important, but I will need to know roughly how long it was between each person's arrival. In particular what sort of coat each man was wearing.”

The attendant nodded. I wondered why the four gentlemen's outer wear was so important.

“Mr. Barclay had a long black coat, foreign I think”, he said. “Very high quality and with his name sewn into it, which is unusual these days. He was carrying it when he came in and handed it over straight away. It was one of those warm days with lots of showers so I presumed that it had to have been dry just then; the reception area does not possess a window and we cannot see out of the front door. Mr. Barclay took his ticket and went into the club; my assistant Peters took his coat out to the cloakroom.”

“Lord Franks arrived about five minutes later, maybe a little less. He had a brown wool coat, again good quality but very wet so there had to have been a shower outside since Mr. Barclay had arrived. His Lordship was quite cross – he lives in the same road as the club but at the far end so I suppose he must have decided to walk rather than take a cab - and I had to call him back for his ticket. I took his coat through to the back as Peters was filling out the log-book for another arrival.”

“The gentlemen do not go into the cloakroom itself?” Holmes asked.

“They can if they want to, sir”, the attendant said, “but they very rarely do. If they want something they usually come to the counter and ask for it. Some of the older members like to get their own things but I have to admit them by raising the counter. There is no way in except by the back door and that was locked. I checked afterwards, and Mr. Paul had the key all day.”

 _The unpleasant day manager,_ I thought. I half-wished that he had had a motive in this mess.

“Interesting”, Holmes said.

“Lieutenant Easton and Colonel Upwood arrived together, I think about three minutes or so after Lord Franks”, Mr. Doncaster went on. “The lieutenant handed me his coat – a thin, light brown raincoat, rather poor quality - then he took the colonel's black military overcoat and gave me that. The latter was far superior and had the regimental crest sewn onto the breast pocket. The lieutenant waited for the tickets while the colonel went on ahead but he had to call him back as he had forgotten the cards.....”

His voice faded and he looked puzzled.

“But.... that's impossible!” 

“What is?” I asked.

“When the lieutenant handed me the coats his was almost dry but the colonel's was wet. Yet he – the lieutenant - said that they had _both_ walked there. I know that they come from different directions but I would not have thought it was only raining at one end of the street, long as it is.”

Holmes looked pleased at that for some reason.

“When the colonel took the cards from the lieutenant, did he pocket them?” he asked. 

The attendant frowned with the effort of remembering.

“Yes”, he said at last. “He put them in his.... left pocket, it must have been.”

“Did Lord Franks bring the chips?” I asked.

“That I cannot be sure of, sir. But he did have a small case with him when he arrived so they may have been in that.”

“Excellent!” Holmes beamed. “You have been _most_ helpful, sir. Now if you would kindly show us to the room in question, we shall conduct the business we need to conduct there and then never darken the doors of this place again!”

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The games room was a huge affair and as requested we had it to ourselves. It was then that I discovered the reason for our detour via Baker Street; Holmes, knowing the reputation of the place and correctly anticipating our less than warm welcome, duly planted something down the pockets on each table that, he assured me, would later emit a particularly foul odour. Also there is now a device that can warp billiard-tables so that balls no longer travel in straight lines. Technology can be wonderful at times!

I had thought we would hail a cab back to Kent upon leaving that baleful place, but Holmes was eyeing a small coffee-shop across the street.

“Wait here just a moment, Watson”, he said, before dashing over the road and into the building. I sighed. Coffee at a time like this, honestly! However he emerged just moments later, smiling. Not even with a cup of coffee!

“Sometimes the long shots pay off”, he smiled. “We must return to Lee and set poor Mr. Upwood's mind at rest!”

“What was so important about the two coats?” I asked, as he hailed a cab.

“The lieutenant's coat had to be dry”, he said, as a cab stopped for us. “It was the only possibility.”

I wished that I could see why but he said nothing. We were further delayed as he had to send a telegram for some reason but finally we crossed the Thames and headed back to Lee.

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I was along with everyone else to be kept waiting a little longer for no sooner had we arrived at the Upwoods' house than Holmes asked if he might have ten minutes to attend to an urgent matter. I wondered if he was going to send a telegram but I heard no-one being summoned to the writing-room, so the matter remained a mystery. After less than the stated time he rejoined us; Miss Forrester had been across earlier but Mr. Upwood had walked her home for the night.

“This has been a most unusual case”, Holmes said, holding two sheets of writing in his hands. “Fortunately it is now solved, although the matter of actually ensuring justice may be a little difficult.”

“How can it be difficult?” Mr. Upwood asked. “If my father did not cheat and I am sure that he did not, then someone clearly set him up. What is difficult about that?”

Holmes looked at him almost sorrowfully. He paled.

“You are not telling me that Father _did_ cheat?” he gasped. “I will not believe it!”

“I am not telling you that”, Holmes said. “What I do have to tell you, however, is still painful.”

He turned to the lieutenant.

 _“You_ killed him, sir”, he said, his voice ice-cold. “As surely as if you had driven a knife into his belly or shot him in the chest. _You_ are responsible for the death of Colonel Jeremiah Upwood, and you alone.”

The lieutenant had gone deathly pale.

“Is this some sort of joke?” he managed.

“I will tell you why you did it”, Holmes said, “then I will tell you how. A search of the army records will reveal that Easton is not your real name. You changed it on joining the army, your reasons for which were pure and simply revenge.”

“Poppycock!” the lieutenant blustered.

“It is unfortunate for you that I am well acquainted with the atlas of England”, Holmes said. “In the fair county of Northamptonshire there is a charming little village called Easton Maudit. Lieutenant Patrick Maudit was your elder brother and when he took his own life after his attempt to gain a promotion by smearing a rival officer backfired, you held the Upwoods responsible even though it was all your brother's fault. Reuben Upwood passed beyond your reach before you could get to him, but you would have blood one way or another.”

“Lies!” the lieutenant snapped. I made sure that I was between him and the only exit from the room. And I had my gun ready.

“You took the name of the village that long ago took its name from your ancestors”, Holmes went on. “Barrett Maudit became Barrett Easton, working his way into the army intent on one thing and one thing only – the destruction of Colonel Jeremiah Upwood. And when you found that his son was dating an attractive young girl you acquired yet another motive. You knew that she would never look at a lowly lieutenant when she could have a colonel's son – but if that son's name was blackened beyond repair then he would have to withdraw. Doubtless you considered that a fitting extra punishment for the family that had 'crossed' you.”

Mr. Upwood was staring at his friend in shocked disbelief. I knew how he felt.

“You waited for a week in which Colonel Upwood was to bring the cards for your encounter at the club”, Holmes went on. “On that fateful day you arrived at Hope Street much earlier than you told us but you did not go to the Gallery as you claimed. Instead you seated yourself in a coffee-shop opposite to await your target's approach. I have to tell you that the waitress remembers you, lieutenant, and I am sure that her description of you would stand up in a court of law. She also described you as waiting for someone to appear in the street and how you then rushed out, almost knocking her fellow waitress over in your haste.”

The soldier put his head in his hands and groaned. 

“It was that waiting that gave you away”, Holmes went on. “That, and the temperamental English weather. Colonel Upwood had been caught in the shower which stopped moments before you began your mad dash. Had you been walking there from the Gallery as you claimed, your coat would have been as wet as his was. It was a pity for you that you could not have admitted to the visit but then people might well have wondered why you had paid for a coffee just doors away from where you could have had one for free. The cloakroom attendant confirmed that the colonel's coat was wet while yours was dry.”

“Four weeks earlier you had taken great care to notice the sort of playing-card that the colonel brought when his turn came around, likely pilfering one of the jokers. You had an identical deck in your own pocket – _except that yours were marked!_ All that you had to to was make sure to switch the packs while you we handing in the colonel's coat then to drop a card later in the evening, making the seemingly chance comment that drew attention to the marks.”

“You bastard!” Mr. Upwood ground out. “I should kill you!”

“Let us not complicate matters still further by having _you_ accused of murder”, Holmes said. “I have a somewhat better resolution.”

He placed the two pieces of paper on the table.

“This is a confession”, he said. “Lieutenant, you will sign both copies then Mr. Upwood, the doctor and I will all sign as witnesses.”

The soldier looked at him warily.

“And?” he asked. 

“Twenty-four hours from now I shall hand this document over to the relevant authorities”, Holmes said. “What you choose to do in the meantime is your own business. Regretfully I doubt that a jury would convict you of murder, although I am sure that you do not need me to tell you that social ruin is certain if you remain in this country. The decision is yours.”

The soldier stared balefully at us then grabbed the pen and signed his name without even reading the document. He strode to the door, then paused.

“Watch yourself, Cecil”, he sneered, “you and that pretty lady of yours. You never know when I might appear again!”

With that he was gone. I stared after him anxiously.

“Is it right to let him go like that?” Mr. Upwood asked.

Holmes was silent. We both looked at him curiously.

“I very rarely renege on a deal”, he said slowly, “but from what he just said, that man is far too dangerous to be allowed to remain free. He might indeed contrive try to slip back into England and target either you, Mr. Upwood, or Miss Forrester, and he has shown exceptional if evil skills in committing a murder for which no jury would likely hang him for want of direct evidence. Fortunately I foresaw such an eventuality, and have put certain preparations in place.”

He rang for a servant, and handed him one of the sheets of paper. The man left very quickly, I noted.

“The top sheet is indeed am confession”, he said, “which he has signed and we will witness. Much more important however is the second sheet that is now on its way to London, and is a _suicide note_. Within a short space of time it will be in the hands of a certain lady whose speciality is, as she so charmingly puts it, 'direct removal'. Since the lieutenant will need some time to make certain arrangements in the capital she will easily catch him, and will follow him onto his train to whichever port he is headed. His body will be found with his own admission of guilt, and the case will be closed.”

I could see that Mr. Upwood was shocked at this, but the more that I thought about it the more I realized that Holmes was right. By his own words this man was too dangerous to be allowed to go free. It was horrible, but it was the only way.

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Postscriptum: The following day the newspapers were filled with the shock resolution to the Nonpareil case, in which Colonel Upwood's good name was cleared as his fellow army officer who had attempted to frame him had been found dead on a train to Harwich, having apparently blown his brains out. The Army was instituting a full whitewash (which, rather oddly, they spelled 'inquiry') into the whole affair.

Mr. Cecil Upwood did marry Miss Elizabeth Forrester, the day after his eighteenth birthday the following year. Perhaps because of the scandal surrounding his father's death he took her name; his family was grudgingly accepting of this but his new wife soon won them over. She sent us both a slice of wedding-cake which was nice of her – and unlike so many who required our services, we had not seen the last of her.

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	15. Case 123: The Adventure Of The Innocent Murderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. A man is going to be hung for a murder that he did not commit – but he is guilty of two other murders that he has gotten away with. Holmes has to once again put justice before the strict letter of the law, and also makes a wise confectionery purchase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Mr. Albert Stevens.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Of the many cases that Holmes and I undertook there were were many where his resolution did not precisely adhere to the letter of English law (by a large distance in some cases!). But as he himself so often said, he was an agent of justice first and the law second, and if the two clashed he would always choose justice. Few cases demonstrated this better than that of Mr. Albert Stevens, a villain who went to the gallows for a crime that he did not commit yet was surely as guilty as sin. Naturally I could not publish this case at the time for as the actions of Holmes (and myself) were technically unlawful. I only ask that the reader empathizes with us and considers what they would have done in a similarly impossible situation. Justice and the law are not always good bedfellows, and the country needs agents of both to keep it true and righteous.

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It was October and I was feeling depressed by the grey autumn weather. Our adventure in Reigate (yes the one that had resulted in a certain photograph that a certain horrible bacon-stealing detective _still_ had on his writing-desk, damn him!) was being published in the 'Strand' magazine; to my annoyance I had had to do a whole lot of extra work on it the previous month after the magazine editor's replacement while he was on holiday had sent me a 'corrected' copy with so many basic spelling and grammatical errors that I had had to virtually rewrite the whole thing. Education these days had a lot to answer for!

It was our friend LeStrade who brought the Stevens Affair to our notice, albeit reluctantly. He had called round to report on a minor case that Holmes had advised him on but had seemed unusually preoccupied.

“Something is troubling you, LeStrade”, Holmes observed. 

The burly policeman looked up ruefully from his coffee. 

“That obvious?” he grunted.

I only narrowly bit back the remark that he had barely even noticed the delicious sponge cream cake that Mrs. Hudson had 'just happened' to have been baking on this day. Even a non-detective like myself could put two and two together and make....

Damnation, Holmes was looking at me again!

“It's the Stevens case”, the policeman sighed. “The fellow goes to the gallows on Friday and.... damn and blast, my gut says he's innocent even though all the facts say he's guilty!”

Holmes cut the sergeant a large slice of cake and placed it on the table next to him. He did not immediately start devouring it. Lord above, this was _really_ serious!

“I think that you had better start at the beginning”, my friend smiled, shaking his head at me for some reason. “Watson read the article to me from yesterday's newspaper, but I dare say that viewing it without the distorting prism of the average London journalist will throw a whole new light on the affair.”

LeStrade sighed heavily. I had expected him to be tired as I knew that his son Gareth had come to London to visit him and had brought our friend's first grandson the four-year-old Galahad to see him, but he still looked genuinely depressed. Even for him!

“It goes back several months to the case of Major Paddy Stevens”, he began. “He was in the Buffs serving out in Malaya; a rough old soldier but well-liked by his men. There was an attack by some local rebels and he was one of the fellows captured. His men got him back but there was a suggestion, fanned by a claim from one of the captured rebels, that he had gone willingly and even been instrumental in arranging the attack.”

“Desertion?” I asked horrified. “Why would he do such a thing? Come to that, why would they believe one of his abductors?”

“It made no sense”, LeStrade said. “He had a good track record, he was coming up to retirement and the regiment was almost at the end of its service there. Also, army rules meant that he could not be sent out to that part of the world again or even abroad in the time he had left. The fellow who made the allegations against him was one of his own men, a Sergeant Sean Mallow. Stevens was court-martialed, found guilty – to the surprise of many in the Army; I suppose they expected the usual whitewash - and dishonourably discharged. It ruined him because that meant no pension; he blew his brains out on the ship home.”

“I take it that there is more?” Holmes asked. LeStrade nodded.

“It later came out that the court may have been rigged”, he said. “One of the three judges or whatever they call them was Colonel Seamus Mallow the accuser's father; he really should have signed himself off or whatever they do. It also emerged that Sean Mallow was up for promotion against Major Stevens' own son Albert, a sergeant in the same regiment. The conviction ruined Albert Stevens as you might have guessed; he resigned from the army and accompanied his father home. He was the one that found the body, poor sod. He was interviewed by a paper when he got back to England and he told the reporter that 'justice would be done, _one way or another'_.”

I swallowed. This sounded ominous.

“Apart from old Mallow the two other judges were also colonels, Eustace Morris and William Fairfax. Fairfax was well-regarded while Morris was seen as having been promoted to get him away from the front line as he had a bit of a reputation for upsetting those in authority. You know, a quiet office job where he could do less harm; there's plenty in the Service like that!”

“The Buffs got back two weeks ago, September the twentieth, and two days after that Colonel Mallow was shot dead in his own house in Surrey. No-one linked it to the court-martial at the time – until two days later when Colonel Morris up in Essex was shot too. In both cases a sprig of lavender, the symbol of the Buffs, was left next to the dead body.”

I wondered at that. Why not kill the two colonels living next to each other first, and instead go all the way to Essex?

“That seems odd”, Holmes said. “Almost as if Mr. Stevens was proclaiming his guilt.”

LeStrade nodded.

“We suspected the fellow, but getting a case against him proved impossible. He didn't have alibis for the times of the two murders but he'd been clever; no-one had seen him enter or leave the buildings, and although we checked all the guns at his house none had been fired recently. We tried to get evidence of his going to Morris's place but he must've got there some roundabout way or other.” 

“Then last Saturday we got lucky”, he continued. “Or luckier than Colonel Fairfax who went the same way as his fellow judges. Again the lavender but this time we found something else – a button underneath the dead body. Better still, the colonel's house is almost opposite the local pub and two of the area's coppers were outside having lunch. They saw someone come out of the grounds next door acting suspicious but when they went and questioned the owners they said that no-one had called.”

“Why next door?” I wondered.

“There's just a low wall dividing the two properties”, LeStrade explained, “and there is even a gate in it. Stevens must have used that way in in case he was spotted entering the colonel's house. No footprints worse luck; all this dry weather meant the ground was as hard as rock, but we were lucky we had some men on the spot. In fact they were the ones who gave Colonel Fairfax the warning that he might be next after the first two killings, much good as it did him”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“Was Mr. Stevens questioned over the first two murders?” he asked.

“He was”, LeStrade said. “Mallow's house is in the same street at his fellow colonel's and it was one of those two constables who found the body who questioned him. Smith his name is, and the other fellow is Turlow. Morris lives as I said in Essex, a place called Thaxted.”

“A button and a distant sighting do not seem much to hang a man by”, Holmes observed. LeStrade grinned.

“When they took him in for questioning a second time Stevens had a button missing from his shirt”, he said. “Not only that, the buttons had been tailored with the design of a sprig of lavender. They were regimental issue, unique. And again he had no alibi; Saturday was the day he always went fishing down the canal and no-one saw him.”

Holmes frowned.

“I do not see the problem”, he said. LeStrade sighed.

“Three things”, he said. “First, Stevens denies murdering Fairfax despite the evidence. I've been in the game long enough to have a sense of when someone's lying and my gut says that despite all we know he's telling the truth on this one, though I'm sure he's guilty of the first two which he's also denied doing. Then there's the daughter.”

“What about her?” I asked.

“Mrs. Penelope Montague”, he said. “She came to me on Sunday and told me that her father had wanted to find Stevens innocent but had been outvoted. She also thought that someone had tried to put the screws on her father to reach the 'right' decision, which she said would have made him do pretty much the opposite. Courts-martial do not say whether the decisions they reach are unanimous or not, but her father wrote to Stevens after the hearing to tell him. The letter missed him and was sent on to England for his arrival.”

“Did he ever receive it?” Holmes asked. LeStrade nodded.

“I challenged Albert Stevens on this when I met him, and he not only admitted that he had received the letter but told me where the key to the drawer in his father's writing-desk was kept so I could see it for myself. I did and there it was.”

I saw what that meant. Mr. Albert Stevens would have had no motive to have killed Colonel Fairfax, yet the man had still been killed.

“What is your third issue?” Holmes asked.

“Change of method”, LeStrade said. “The first two deaths were long-distance shootings across a room; in both cases there was no-one in the house at the time. But Fairfax was shot close-up, the gun held right against his chest. Now the house had servants and people in it not that far away but the difference between the two methods... it worries me.”

“Who benefits from the three deaths?” I asked.

“You're thinking killing two to conceal a third murder, aren't you?” LeStrade said. “Hiding a leaf in a forest, like that bastard Finnegan in the royal case†. Mallow owned a considerable estate which should have gone to his son Sean. I don't doubt Stevens would have targeted him in his turn but he never got the chance. The fellow had to return home when his wife petitioned for a divorce once the hearing was done – of course all the gossips said that she 'knew something' – and he rushed home to sort it all out. Unfortunately his ship stopped off in Alexandria and he sampled the 'delights' of the port a little too much. He contracted syphilis and died the day before his ship made London. Karma's a bitch at times! The money all went to his brother Fergus although I understand he did pay the wife something. Fair of him all things considered as they're said to not get on, but I suppose better that than blowing it all in lawyers' fees.”

“Colonel Morris had no children so his estate was divided equally amongst charities and five distant cousins; the most any of them got was a few hundred and none of them needed the money or anything. Fairfax is the most interesting and I only know this because the solicitor contacted the local police as soon as he saw what had happened. The colonel made a will dividing his property equally between his son Devon and his daughter. But neither of them knew that; they both thought it would all go to the son especially as the daughter had married a rich fellow. Their solicitor said the colonel did not trust him to treat his sister right so made her a co-heiress or whatever they call it. Captain Devon Fairfax is a bit of a rake and has huge debts which he probably expected to be able to clear with all that money he'll only be getting the half of now.”

“Unless his sister also had an 'accident'”, I said wryly. 

Holmes shook his head at my cynicism. I did not know why; the sort of people that we dealt with often had little regard for human lives.

“As I said she's Mrs. Montague now, and married with two children of her own”, LeStrade said. “So unless the captain's into mass murder he's on to a loser there.”

“Is the estate large?” Holmes asked. 

“Even if he had inherited the lot, probably not enough to support Captain Devon for more than a few years with his record”, LeStrade said. “This is all off the record of course. Mrs. Montague does not know yet and will not until the will is officially read and published; the solicitor could only tell me because it has to be in the papers soon and he felt that it might be important in the investigation. I wish I was at the reading to see their faces!”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“Is Mr. Stevens the inheritor of his late father's estate?” he asked.

That seemed a surprising question, and I could see that LeStrade thought much the same.

“No”, he said. “He is the third of four sons so only gets a pittance; perhaps that was why he went into the army as his eldest brother is in business. I don't think that the late Colonel Stevens was particularly rich; you know how little the Army pays. Have you any thoughts, sir?”

“Yes”, Holmes said. “The case seems quite straightforward.”

LeStrade stared at him. So did I.

“You think that Stevens _did_ kill Fairfax?” he asked.

“I think that your gut feeling is, as so often, quite right”, Holmes smiled. “But we have less than seventy-two hours until Mr. Stevens meets his Maker and has to account for his actions in the one court that can never be rigged. We must move quickly. Doctor, can you be free this afternoon?”

I had been supposed to go into work that afternoon but clearly this was more pressing. The surgery had been even more pleased with the publicity surrounding my latest stories and had as a result granted me pretty much whatever time I wanted off provided I made up for it later. And as I have said before the other doctors had received small bonuses what with all the extra work that my 'fame' had brought to the surgery, so they were all right with it too.

“If I can send a telegram to work to let them know then yes”, I said, not missing the way that my friend's eyes lit up at that.

“In that case”, he smiled, “you should meet back up with us again tomorrow afternoon LeStrade. Hopefully we shall have something to tell you. Besides”, he added mischievously, “we may even still have a slice of this cake left!”

“Unless by some miracle Gregson calls round”, I said in a not at all snarky manner. 

I still got a look from 'someone', though, which was damnably unfair considering who did 'just happen to drop by later'! Harrumph!

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Unfortunately the surgery, while willing to let me have the afternoon off, asked that I come in before lunch to attend to one of their richest (and fussiest) clients Lady Drinkwater. I was annoyed as the 'Strand' magazine had just been delivered to the house and I had looked forward to re-checking the final instalment of the Reigate case for any last-minute inaccuracies that may have crept back in again. I left Holmes reading it – he had of course checked the original draft before the editor's mauling – and told him that I would get lunch while out and be back by one at the latest.

I returned shortly after one and was able to read through the story (only the first part, not the part including a certain photograph that someone _still_ had out on display!) while a cab took us to the scene of the first and third murders, the small Surrey town of Mortlake. The two colonels had I observed lived in a quiet part of the town where the houses were notably larger. The pub in the area appeared to be doing a roaring trade although the recent shower had cleared the outside benches. 

Holmes went inside and ordered lunch – I could trust him to do that whereas Stevie would always try to order us both something healthy! - and thankfully the shower had passed and the skies were blue so we ensconced ourselves on an outside table with food and beer.

“I wondered at one thing”, I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Why did Stevens kill here, then go all the way to the middle of Essex, then come back and kill here again?” I said. He could have dispatched the Essex target and then struck at both targets here. With Sean Mallow dead he could then have fled the country.”

He looked at me.

“That is a most excellent observation”, he said.

I did not preen. Much.

We had finished our food when two constables passed us and went into the pub, then came out with their own meals and drinks. One was blond and reedy while the other was dark, shorter and frowned a lot. I noted that he blond policeman had his right arm in a sling which made eating difficult.

Holmes said nothing until we had finished our drinks and did not seem inclined to leave. Eventually the two policemen finished and left, and the barmaid came out to clear their table.

“One of your local policemen is injured, I see”, Holmes said conversationally.

She turned and eyed him and I felt a surge of protectiveness towards my friend. She was at least ten years older than him (and getting on for twice the body weight!) but she was still eyeing him like he would make a tasty meal.

“That's Mark Turlow”, she said. “He got that dealing with a burglary last month; fell down a fire-escape would you believe? Should be out of it by next week though.”

“All in the line of duty”, Holmes smiled. 

“You just down here for the day?” she asked. “'Cause we have... rooms.”

She was quite clearly offering much more than just a room, the hussy. I snapped.

“We are heading back now!” I said a little too forcibly as I stood up. Holmes looked surprised but followed me away from the pub even as I all but ran to the roadside to hail a cab.

 _“Are_ we done here, doctor?” he asked quietly. I blushed.

“I just wanted to get away from her and those come-hither eyes”, I said not at all petulantly. “Her sort are only after one thing!”

The knowing smile on his face only served to increase my discomfiture. Fortunately he changed the subject.

“I have all I need to complete the case”, he said, although he sounded almost rueful about that. “Though as so often delivering justice will be.... difficult.”

“I have faith in you”, I said before I could stop myself. 

I wondered if I should open my mouth wider so I could get the other foot in while I was at it. He smiled at me and hailed a passing cab for us. The ride back to Baker Street was silent but it was a strangely comfortable silence.

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There was a rather curious incident the following morning when Mrs. Hudson called at our rooms while I was getting dressed. I did not know what she said to Holmes but it led him to call to me that he was dashing out and should be back in about ten minutes, and if LeStrade called in that time I was to ask him to wait. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

Fortunately Holmes returned before our policeman friend who, I noticed, looked visibly worried when there was no cake to be seen.

“Dear Gregson called in yesterday evening as he 'just happened to be passing'”, Holmes smiled. “Mrs. Hudson said that since she did not want it to spoil then he should take the last slice of sponge-cake.”

Poor LeStrade looked like his world was going to end. Then he caught sight of the paper bag on the table.

“You went to _Branksome's?”_ he asked incredulously. Branksome's was a high-class bakery in Baker Street where they charged over three times as much as a regular bakery, but then again their food was nine times as delicious. Holmes nodded.

“I sorted a small matter for them”, Holmes said, “and they gave me a free slice of their Triple Vanilla Deluxe Cake. But it is too rich for me. Would you like it, perhaps?”

 _Is the Pope Catholic_ , I thought with a smile. That was what Mrs. Hudson must have come up for this morning, having realized that there would be no cake for our police visitor. 

LeStrade sighed happily as he almost embraced his prize. It must have cost Holmes dearly to have put a smile on his face at this trying time. He was a good friend.

“What did you find out about Stevens?” the policeman asked once he had stopped drooling.

Holmes hesitated.

“I would like to ask you a question”, he said slowly. “What is your personal opinion of the two constables who found the body, Smith and Turlow? Be assured that it will not be repeated outside these four walls.”

“Only what Woodward, their own sergeant told me about them”, LeStrade said. “Turlow is ambitious and wants promotion while Smith is he thinks marking time until something better comes along. Their beats are next to each other and Turlow got his injury during a burglary recently. He went and fell down a fire-escape while chasing the villain; so much for a safety feature but at least he caught the fellow.”

Holmes smiled at that.

“Your gut feeling still says that Mr. Albert Stevens did not kill Colonel Fairfax?” he said.

LeStrade nodded. 

“Was Stevens searched when he was questioned at the station in Mortlake?” Holmes asked.

“Both times”, LeStrade said. “His lawyer got all uptight about it, but then they always do.”

“Who searched him?” Holmes asked.

LeStrade had to consult his case notes which Holmes had asked him to bring. Somehow he still contrived to hold tightly to his cake, though.

“Turlow and Smith did the first time”, he said. “Stevens lives just over the river in Chiswick. They found nothing on him. The second time the lawyer was there and he insisted that Wooler examine the clothes in his presence. He took them into another room and looked them over but he found nothing as well.”

“Did you check as to whether Captain Devon Fairfax had an alibi?” I asked. LeStrade nodded.

“Not for the first murder – he was at home all day – but for the second he was visiting a friend in Barnet and they swear that he did not leave until well after the murder”, he said ruefully. “Not a reliable fellow but unfortunately the local vicar called round while he was there and I can hardly question the Word of God. He was there when his father was murdered but in the outside greenhouse and says he heard nothing. Woodward does not like him but he admits that he may be telling the truth there; the house backs right onto the river and he says that when he went there he could not have heard anyone in the house what with the sound of the river. As I said the gun was fired close in so there was little noise.”

Holmes sighed heavily and, to my surprise, looked at me.

“I do not think that the good doctor will be happy with what may result from what I about to tell you”, he said, “but your gut feeling was as I said quite correct. Mr. Albert Stevens did not kill Colonel Fairfax.”

“But the lavender!” I objected.

“It was that particular herb which suggested the identity of the real murderers”, Holmes said.

“More than one?” LeStrade asked.

“Mr. Wylam Smith and Mr. Mark Turlow.”

There was a stunned silence before LeStrade found his voice.

“Impossible!” he snorted. Holmes leaned forward. 

“When the two constables took Stevens in for questioning the first time”, he began, “they already knew the fundamentals of the case against him. He had as they saw it motive to kill three men for their cruel and malicious condemnation of his father. After the first death anyone would assume that he would move on to kill the other two colonels; I am sure that they did not warn Colonel Fairfax as they claimed to have done. They did not however know of the letter showing that the latter had demurred at the sentence, which fact you yourself told us only came to light some time later. It also explains Watson's point as to why the Essex murder took place between two in the same Surrey street - because Stevens did not intend to commit a second murder in Surrey. And nor did he.

“Stevens first kills Mallow, the father of the man who ruined his own father, and naturally he is brought in for questioning. I think that Turlow was the driving-force behind this and his friend went along with it because that after all is the police way – protect each other at all costs. Turlow guessed that Stevens would strike at the other two colonels soon but he also knew that the man was at the end of the day a trained killer. It was highly unlikely that he would be caught.”

“Turlow laid his plans carefully. During the search of Stevens's clothes at Mortlake Police Station, he spots the distinctive buttons and most likely removes the spare one for use later. He is fortunate that the house of Colonel Fairfax is on his beat so he keeps an eye on it, fully expecting that it will be the scene of the next attack.”

“But then Stevens kills Morris up in Essex. This doubtless worries Turlow; as Watson said, surely Stevens would strike at the two men close together one after the other. Why has he gone all the way to Essex when one of his remaining targets is close at hand? Turlow frets but he can only wait for the fellow's return and the third murder, which he will solve to his and his friend's credit.”

“He is as we know to be disappointed, for because of the letter Stevens does not strike at the third member of the court-martial. Time drags on and it becomes clear that, for whatever reason, Colonel Fairfax is to be spared. That does not suit Turlow at all; his future promotion prospects hinge on a successful arrest of a serial killer on his patch. The colonel must die.”

I stared at him in shock. Killing an innocent man solely for a _promotion?_ Holmes continued with his tale.

“He gets hold of Stevens's statement from the second murder and sees an opening. The man had no alibi because he always goes fishing in a quiet spot by the canal near his house every weekend. So he will have no alibi for the coming Saturday. The longer delay between the second and third murder is irritating but he hopes that it will go unnoticed. Larger things have when the police are being pushed to achieve a result.” 

“On the following Saturday Turlow and Smith go to Montacute House and are of course admitted. Smith shoots the colonel with the same type of gun that they know Stevens possesses, a sprig of lavender is again left and the button is placed underneath the body. The lack of noise and the scorch marks showed as you surmised that the colonel allowed the killer to get close to them, and that would have only happened if it had been either family or someone deemed trustworthy. Like say a policeman.”

LeStrade shook his head in disbelief.

“How do you know that Smith shot him?” he asked.

“Turlow has that arm injury”, Holmes explained, “and from the way he was struggling when we observed him it was clearly his principal arm.” 

I slid a glass of whisky next to LeStrade's tea and he downed it gratefully. Then he looked at us, his eyes hardening.

“What you are saying”, he said quietly, “is that Mr. Albert Stevens is going to the gallows for a crime that he did not commit.”

Holmes looked meaningfully at me. I wondered why.

“True”, he said, “but the alternative is that he evades going to the gallows for two crimes which he _did_ commit. Also there is always the possibility that he confesses at the last.”

LeStrade was looking at me too, now.

“What?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably.

“You are the English conscience”, Holmes said quietly. “If you say that this must go forward, then a murderer will walk free. If you decide to say nothing then he will be hung for a crime that he did not commit. The difference between justice and the law is sometimes a wide one, my friend.”

“You are putting this on me?” I exclaimed.

“He trusts your judgement”, LeStrade said shortly . “So do I.”

I sighed and reached for the decanter. It was not just LeStrade who needed a stiff drink.

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Mr. Albert Edward Stevens went to the gallows at nine o' clock on a breezy Friday morning. There was no last-minute appeal or reprieve but he did leave a signed letter admitting to the first two murders while repeating his denials as to the third. Based on the information Holmes had provided, Constables Turlow and Smith were subsequently charged with gross misconduct in a public office – LeStrade grudgingly conceded that there was little chance of their being convicted of murder – and were forced to quit the service. Turlow left the country for Canada while Smith sank into London's low-life and disappeared from view.

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_Notes:_   
_† The Sign Of The Four._

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	16. Case 124: Silver Blaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. This had to be the largest thing that Holmes was ever asked to find, weighing more than eight African elephants put together! What sort of idiot loses something that big?   
> Step forward Mr. Jehoshaphat Jones.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

In our many years together my friend Holmes was often called upon to find objects which had been either lost or stolen. These were generally small things, down to and including that infamous fountain-pen, but in this case the item was somewhat larger if not indeed the largest thing that Holmes had ever been called upon to track down. Namely a forty-two ton Great Eastern Railway steam locomotive! 

'Someone' suggested that I entitle this story 'Grand Theft Loco' – a suggestion, I noted, which he made one morning only _after_ bacon! Harrumph!

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This case began just as after the capital was finally winding down from the splendid celebrations for Her Majesty's Golden Jubilee. Naturally every town in the country was eager for a royal visit that memorable year, but even our dear queen could not be everywhere at once and around this time of year she always made a point of being in Scotland, beloved country of both her and her late husband (and until a few years back, a certain ghillie called Mr. John Brown!). Before heading North however she had arranged to visit the new museum marking the Roman Occupation, in the Essex town of Chelmsford. It was matters arising from that trip and the Great Eastern Railway's untimely loss of a large railway locomotive which occasioned this case. This was also the first case in which I saw the direct involvement of the most formidable ladies in London, whom I had been introduced to but barely knew.

Mr. Jehoshaphat Jones, a director of the aforementioned railway company, looked decidedly ill at ease in our Baker Street home. He was about fifty, so round that he was almost bursting his buttons, very well-to-do and (in my opinion) possessed of far too high an opinion of himself as if he was Lowering His Standards to seek help from Holmes. The way he looked pityingly around the room made me quietly seethe. Though not that quietly judging from the knowing look that my friend was sending me. That did not change, worse luck!

“I do not understand it, Mr. Holmes”, our unwelcome guest whined, patting his forehead with a handkerchief as he strove to recover from the monumental effort of our stairs. “I mean, a whole railway locomotive? Now of all the times!”

“You had better calm yourself”, Holmes said calmly, “and start at the beginning. Once we know _all_ the facts then we may be able to help you.”

I was slightly vexed that the director gave me a look which said quite clearly that he did not expect me to be of any help, but fortunately for him he did not voice that thought most probably because he caught Holmes looking sharply at him. He coughed awkwardly and began his tale.

“Our company was formed by an 1862 Act of Parliament which allowed my own Eastern Counties Railway to merge with a number of smaller and even trivial concerns in East Anglia”, he said. “If I do say so myself we have grown massively and impressively since and, as I am sure you are aware, operate primarily out of Liverpool Street Station.”

_(As I may have mentioned before, parliament was generally against larger companies as they felt, rightly that they discouraged competition. The E.C.R. had however been a most fractious company and despite owning a considerable length of track was barely profitable, which was why it was allowed to take over the smaller companies around it. As the Great Eastern it had taken some time to get its act together and no dividend had been paid to its shareholders until 1869, but from then on it had advanced steadily and by the time of this story was a quite good company._

_Apart from employing idiots like our client, of course!)_

“Our main engineering works is at Stratford in Essex”, Mr. Jones went on, “and it is there that we seem to have lost one of our locomotives. I am flummoxed, Mr. Holmes, quite flummoxed!”

 _That was careless of you,_ I thought bitchily. Holmes sent me another look. I really wished that he would stop doing that!

“As part of the Golden Jubilee celebrations”, our unwelcome guest went on, “Her Majesty was due to use our company's royal train to travel between Liverpool Street and Chelmsford for a visit to that noble city. The trip is due to take place in two days' time and while it will of course go ahead, it would be mortifying for our good name if this story were to come out. I am frankly amazed that the vultures of the press have not got wind of it yet.”

Despite my dislike of the fellow I could not but agree with him on that point. There was almost no secret in London that our city's journalists could not ferret out once they got the slightest hint of it. The fact this had happened at a railway works with what had to be at hundreds of employees meant that this loss must surely have been known to at least some of them. That no-one had talked was frankly amazing. 

Our client saw my astonishment and nodded.

“I should say at the start that in recent times relations between the company and the men at the works have been.... a tad difficult”, he conceded. “Just before our own silver jubilee celebrations which most happily coincided with Her Majesty's golden ones, they actually went on strike for _more money!_ A quite outrageous demand, I am sure you will agree, but it was made infinitely worse when the traitorous managers at the works went and sided with them! I was shocked I can tell you; such behaviour among people whom we pay good money to be loyal employees! Fortunately they all eventually saw sense although there was still a lot of bad feeling. In the light of such unreasonable behaviour I would fully have expected at least one of them to have gone to the press in order to hasten our discomfiture.”

“I recall that story”, I said, possibly a little too pleased at what I was about to say. “Did not you and the other directors vote yourselves large bonuses while the discussions were still taking place? The 'Times' did a most unflattering cartoon involving pigs at a trough, if I recall?”

He gave me a withering look which I returned with interest.

“Mr. Jones!” Holmes said, more than a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“I am sorry, I am rambling”, the director said. He drew a deep breath and resumed his tale.

“Our royal coach is kept at Liverpool Street and it was decided to assign our jubilee locomotive, engine number 699, for the royal trip. She is the prototype to our latest and fastest class of engine, the T19† class. Because of our celebrations she was named 'Silver Blaze' at the start of the year; we do not name our locomotives as a rule. She was never meant to keep the name but she has proven so popular with the public that we decided to retain it.”

“Yesterday 'Silver Blaze' was scheduled to do a test run up to Liverpool Street in order to make sure that there was no problem with either her or fitting her to the royal coach, after which she would return to the works. One cannot be too careful when one is carrying royalty, as I am sure you gentlemen appreciate. She left the works just after six o' clock in the morning. She should have passed Coborn Road Station ten minutes later at most, yet she never reached it. When the slow train that was following her went through, the Coborn signalman telephoned to Stratford asking where the light locomotive that he had been told to expect had gone. The works was alerted and a search was initiated at once.”

“What about the driver and fireman?” Holmes asked. Mr. Jones groaned.

“They were found bound and gagged in a small back room at the works. They had not seen their attackers who had jumped them and knocked them out as they came in to get changed. The engine was fired up and ready to go so whoever took her knew exactly what they were doing. An inside job for sure.”

“But they cannot just make a whole locomotive disappear!” I objected. “What about branch lines?”

He looked at me pityingly, and I really wanted to hit him.

“The doctor makes a good point”, Holmes said testily and I could see that even his patience was wearing thin. “Kindly answer his question!”

“We know that the locomotive could not have gone east”, Mr. Jones said, “because it would have had to pass through Stratford station which is busy even at that time of the morning. The line from the works was still set for the platform next to a local service so it would definitely have been seen, let alone it having to somehow pass Stratford box where, as with all boxes, all movements are recorded in the Train Register. To the west there is only one branch-line down which she could have passed, a connecting line to Fenchurch Street with a station half a mile along at Bow Road. The points to that line are controlled from a locked ground-box because it is so rarely used; we have had it checked but it did not appear to have been unlocked. We contacted the Bow Road stationmaster and he told us that no light engine had passed through. However one of the works men was walking across a bridge on that line on his way to the works and he says that at just after six he saw the smoke from a train heading towards Coborn Road, in other words to Liverpool Street. Yet the signalman has no record of any such train!”

“It could be that one or both of them is lying”, I muttered, eager to add to our unpleasant guest's discomfiture. I got a glare for my pains.

Holmes pressed his long fingers together. I knew that look; he had something and was deliberating whether or not to say something. I silently cheered for 'not'.

“You mentioned that this was an prototype locomotive”, he said eventually, shaking his head at me slightly. “Have any others of the class entered service?”

Mr. Jones seemed surprised at the question. 

“Locomotives 710 and 711 have”, he said, “and 712 is a few weeks away from joining them, complete at the works except for some final tests. We have engines numbered 700 to 709 still in service so we passed over those in our numbering.”

_(The reader may find this practice odd when set against the modern-day approach of increasingly standardized locomotive numbering and naming but this 'scatter-gun' approach was common among some railway companies, especially the London & North Western whose naming and numbering policy seemed markedly 'scatter-gun' at times.) ___

__“Did your company paint the names on 'Silver Blaze', or did it use name-plates?” Holmes asked._ _

__“Sir!”_ _

__I could see from my friend's face that he was now genuinely annoyed. Our guest belatedly got the message and quickly answered his question._ _

__“'Silver Blaze' is in fact our only named locomotive”, he said. “We had two special grey name-plates cast for the smoke-box. But these cannot have been transferred to either of the other two engines in service, sir. I thought that myself and checked; Locomotive 710 was working the London to Norwich train some way beyond Romford, while 711 was on an up train a little way south of Ipswich. Number 712 had not yet been steamed and was being worked on that morning.”_ _

__“The nameplates apart, this 'Silver Blaze' was no different to her sister engines?” Holmes asked._ _

__“No sir. There was some discussion about painting her silver because of the name, but in a world of coal-fired locomotives such a thing would have been _quite_ impractical.”_ _

___(It was odd that he should have said that, for ten years later to mark Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee the London & North Western Railway did exactly that with an engine turned out in lilac and cream, although 'Queen-Empress' reverted to the standard black once the celebrations were over. And only last year (1935) the London & North Eastern Railway instituted the Silver Jubilee train to mark the jubilee of Victoria's grandson King George the Fifth, a set of silver coaches pulled by a silver locomotive)._ _ _

__“Stratford is on the London to Norwich line”, Holmes observed. Our guest's eyes widened._ _

__“Do you think.....?”_ _

__“I do not _think_ sir”, Holmes said abruptly. “I prefer to _know_. This is a most intriguing case, Mr. Jones. However I do foresee certain problems in restoring your locomotive to you.”_ _

__“Can you help us, sir?” the director asked._ _

__“No. At least not yet.”_ _

__I jumped. I had not been expecting that. And clearly neither had Mr. Jones._ _

__“Mr. Holmes!”_ _

__“There is of course the faint possibility that I am wrong”, my friend said, “but I doubt that very much. In view of the obvious facts of the case I may not be able to restore your locomotive to you for some considerable time, and I am afraid almost certainly not in time for Her Majesty's using your line. Whatever else happens we must not keep royalty waiting, must we? I shall telegraph you to arrange a meeting soon – possibly within a week or so - and hopefully I shall have some news by then. You had best assign another engine to the Royal Train.”_ _

__I could see that our guest was far from happy at this but he made his farewells and left. I stared at Holmes in surprise._ _

__“I did not like the fellow's attitude”, he said shortly. “His treatment of you was shabby and he seems to think himself better than us, yet still expected our help. I am fairly sure that I know what happened to this phantom traveller – there is only one real possibility – but I see no reason to spare such an unpleasant man a large dose of embarrassment, especially as the story will be in all the newspapers tomorrow. If not this evening.”_ _

__“How do you know that?” I demanded. It may have been obvious to him but I could not see how a whole railway locomotive could just vanish into thin air. He chuckled._ _

__“I am going to the post-office to send a telegram”, he said. “Do you wish me to post your letter to the bank?”_ _

__“Yes, please”, I said, still musing about what he had said. Unless that branch-line signalman or the works man had been lying, it all seemed quite impossible._ _

__He smiled and left._ _

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He was back in less than half an hour and we spent a quiet afternoon in with him reading some scientific treatise on something utterly incomprehensible and my writing up some case notes. That quiet ended however when the evening newspaper was accompanied by a telegram for Holmes. He read it quickly, smiled and looked inquiringly at me. I put the 'Times' down and resisted a temptation to scowl. Unsuccessfully.

“All right”, I grumbled. “'Mysterious Disappearance Of Queen's Locomotive'. 'Great Eastern Railway Directors Bewildered At Loss'. 'England's Own Vortex To Another Dimension?'”

“I think that the copy-writers may have been partaking of what they call a liquid luncheon”, he smiled. “On the plus side, I am sure that Mr. Jones is hitting the roof just now. The publicity storm will be dreadful!”

“I wonder that the story did not leak out sooner”, I said. 

“It is more damaging this way”, he said. “It will still be headline news tomorrow, then the Queen's visit the next day will keep it there.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“It was leaked _deliberately?”_ I asked.

“Of course”, he said as if it were somehow obvious (it was not). “The gentleman behind this 'grand theft loco' is due here first thing tomorrow morning. If you can delay going into work for a couple of hours I am sure that you would be interested in meeting the man who made a whole railway locomotive disappear.”

“I most definitely would!” I said fervently.

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Just over twelve hours later I was sat in our main room awaiting the arrival of the locomotive thief. I do not know quite what I was expecting, but the fellow who came through the door punctually at eight o' clock in the morning was most definitely not it. He was short, in his late forties, had receding hair and was generally unprepossessing. If this was what a master thief looked like then he had to also be a master of disguise. 

Our visitor bowed to us both, looking decidedly nervous.

“Mr. Ivo Cottonworth, sirs”, he said.

“Pray be seated, sir”, Holmes said courteously. “I promise that we will not detain you for too long. I know that you have to be back at the works but Mr. Jones has been informed that I have to ask you a few things regarding the disappearance of an entire railway locomotive, so your absence will be deemed acceptable in the circumstances.”

Holmes offered our visitor a cup of tea which he took with a hand that trembled slightly.

“Mr. Cottonworth is head of the works at Stratford”, Holmes explained to me. “To those who consider engineering to be a form of magic he is a fine example. It is not many men who can make forty-two tons of solid metal simply vanish into thin air.”

The man blushed.

“You are too generous to trifle with me, sir”, he said to Holmes. “I trust from your message that you know all?”

He took the telegram out of his pocket and handed it to Holmes who passed it over to me. I read it:

'Synergy. Holmes 221B Baker Street 0900 tomorrow.'

“I do not get it”, I said. 

“Synergy is the theory that something can be greater than the sum of its parts”, Holmes explained. “For that is what this story is all about, is it not, Mr. Cottonworth? _Parts._ ”

Our guest blushed even more but stayed silent. 

“I shall tell the doctor what you did for the record”, Holmes said and he seemed strangely relaxed in the presence of someone who stood accused of such large-scale thievery. “This case really began with the pay and conditions dispute earlier in the year. A dispute that was handled very badly by Mr. Jones and his fellow directors, who denied you a pay rise while voting themselves huge bonuses. Typical management behaviour these days, sad to say.”

“They did”, our guest muttered. “They told us there was no money for a pay rise then voted themselves one while we were still talking, even though they claimed that bonuses were not real pay. It caused a load of bad feeling at the works.”

“In so doing they successfully united the whole works against them, including their own underlings”, Holmes said. “That was critical, as just one person could have blown this plot wide open. But you stood united against greedy managers and were determined to teach them a most painful if deserved lesson. Her Majesty's visit to Chelmsford gave you the perfect opportunity so to do. I must say that you planned it most exceptionally well sir, and that had I considered you to be of a criminal persuasion we would be undertaking this interview in the presence of my good friend Sergeant LeStrade.”

Our guest shuddered. Holmes continued.

“'Silver Blaze' is taken in the day before her test run to Liverpool Street and completely disassembled. The parts that constituted her are stored under false store numbers, to be used over time in the construction of other members of the class.”

Mr. Cottonworth nodded.

“We were going to split them between the next three engines in the class”, he admitted. “Numbers 713, 714 and 715, sir.”

“That also shows premeditation”, Holmes said. “Some considerable time passed between the dispute being resolved and the dismantling, and during that time spaces were slowly added to the parts list to accommodate a complete locomotive. It doubtless helped that the Great Eastern Railway was in the process of absorbing a number of smaller companies and that their stock was officially relocated to Stratford; such a thing will always add an element of confusion especially in a large organization. By the time of its disappearance 'Silver Blaze' was that rare thing, an object that existed in two places at once - a complete locomotive on the tracks and the sum of its parts in the stores paperwork.”

“The engine's driver and firemen then most nobly played their part”, he continued, “each taking a blow to the head and allowing themselves to be tied up. I dare say that if the police were to question the men at the works then one or more would obligingly 'remember' seeing a distant light engine or even a trail of smoke heading down the line towards London at the right time. In reality of course the engine was still in the works, albeit in many pieces.”

Our visitor nodded, and sighed.

“You will have to tell Mr. Jones, I suppose”, he said resignedly. 

Holmes sat back.

“Mr. Jones merely asked me to _restore_ his locomotive to him”, he said, “and I did warn him that there might be problems therein. He did not state that he wished to know where it has been these past few days, and although I must say the idea of explaining it to him is an amusing one I would only so do with the doctor here to hand in case the shock proved too much for him. I suppose that his dying of shock might be considering a bad thing by someone, somewhere.”

He paused for a moment.

“Mr. Cottonworth, I have a question for you. It took one night to completely disassemble a Class T19 railway locomotive. How long would it take to _re-_ assemble one from the same pieces?”

The man looked at him in shock, hope in his eyes.

“It... it could be done in as little as seventy-two hours, sir”, he said warily. “All the pieces are in store, ready. It is just a question of fitting them all back together.”

Holmes smiled.

“It seems that I shall shortly be sending Mr. Jones a telegram asking him to meet us at the works”, he said. “Who knows _what_ we will find if we walk around some of the rarely-used sidings there?”

He looked meaningfully at our guest, who seemed on the verge of tears.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!”

“Perhaps you might thank Mr. Jones”, Holmes observed. “Had he not been so completely insufferable when he requested my help, I might have been less lenient. I do hope that I shall receive a telegram from you sometime soon, sir. The word 'complete' should suffice.”

The man looked as if he could not believe his luck. He shook both our hands and almost ran from the room.

“That was very generous of you”, I said. 

“No actual theft took place”, he pointed out. “The parts would all have remained the property of the railway company who would have had them unwittingly used in future locomotives; as with any large organization the _minutiae_ of its day to day running is rarely under full control. I am sure that someone who can make a whole locomotive disappear is more than up to the task of undoing his dissipation of all its parts into storage. Also, I must say that I do look forward to seeing Mr. Jones's face when he is reunited with his 'Silver Blaze'. Come to that, perhaps I had better take certain precautions.”

I looked at him uncertainly. What was he up to now?

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It was five days later, and Mr. Jehoshaphat Jones was staring incredulously at the scene before him. We were in the carriage sidings at the Stratford works; himself, Holmes, myself, Mr. Cottonworth and Holmes's friend Miss Clementine St. Leger (I had mistakenly used her first name on our first meeting and the look that I had received had made me move behind Holmes for protection!). As I have mentioned before she was a secretary at Swordland's, an information agency which had proven useful to my friend on more than one occasion, and I had met her the one time before. Out from behind her desk she was decidedly unconventional, a tall almost muscular lady in her mid-twenties with long flowing red-brunette hair and a set of lime green mechanic's overalls that could probably be seen all the way from Liverpool Street! 

I had seriously been concerned that Mr. Jones was going to need a doctor when he first saw her – there was probably one around somewhere - but he had managed to recover, worse luck. Mr. Cottonworth had only narrowly managed to hide his enjoyment of his director's discomfiture in a timely fit of coughing when we had all been introduced. I had made no such effort.

Because.

The reason for Mr. Jones's second shock of the day was what lay before him in the sidings. A large dark blue express passenger locomotive with the grey 'Silver Blaze' nameplates shining in the early afternoon sun. 

“This is impossible!” he snorted at last.

“You did ask that I restore your locomotive to you”, Holmes reminded him. “I have done so. My bill will be in the post. Good day.”

“But how?” the director demanded. “I must know how!”

I knew that Holmes always enjoyed these moments of revelation though I saw Mr. Cottonworth tense up out of the director's line of vision. Holmes looked thoughtfully at Mr. Jones.

“No.”

The director spluttered furiously.

“What do you mean, 'no'?” he demanded. “I employed you and I _demand_ answers!”

I was reminded of a petulant little boy stamping his foot and demanding that he get his way or he would throw a tantrum. Some people do not change as they grow up. Or in this case, out.

“You employed me to return your locomotive”, Holmes said dryly. “That was your only request. Had you required to be informed of the _whereabouts_ of said locomotive before, during and after Her Majesty's recent trip to fair Essex, you should have specified such at the time. If there is nothing else, we shall be leaving.”

“This is _outrageous!”_ Mr. Jones stormed. He turned on Mr. Cottonworth who took a step back from the larger man. “I know damn well that you and those scum who work here are behind this ramp, Cottonworth. I'll sack one of you every day until I get the truth. Starting with you!”

“I do not think so.”

It was Miss St. Leger who had spoken. Mr. Jones gasped and blinked several times as his entire world view was doubtless shaken, but eventually managed to pull himself together.

“I do not know who you are, _madam”_ , he said haughtily, “but this is none of your damn business. A woman's place is in the home!”

He stepped towards her as he spoke clearly expecting her to back away as Mr. Cottonworth had done. To his and my surprise she stepped in and grinned knowingly at him. He visibly flinched.

“Felixstowe ring any bells, you insufferable pompous oaf?” she smiled.

I had no idea why but the name of that Suffolk port seemed to have a definite effect on Mr. Jones. He went very red and quickly stepped backwards.

“Miss St. Leger is one of the most efficient people in London when it comes to finding out useful information”, Holmes said. “The organization that she works for knows almost everything about almost everybody. After your first meeting with us, Mr. Jones, I judged your character to be the sort that might well seek vengeance against the people who work here, so I took the liberty of contacting her. It took her less than two hours to find the information that I required, yet she felt compelled to apologize for the 'unusual delay'.”

“What information?” I asked. Miss St. Leger grinned at me.

“When this insufferable pompous oaf's lot took over the Felixstowe Railway Company last year”, she said ignoring the spluttering from nearby, “they did so by merging the shareholdings of the two companies. Not illegal in itself - except that several directors of the Great Eastern Railway, including this insufferable pompous oaf, knew of the deal before it went through. They issued a press release to deny the takeover, then when the Felixstowe Railway's share price crashed because everyone thought that the deal was off, they bought lots of their shares cheaply. In the case of this insufferable pompous oaf here he made nearly a hundred pounds‡ on the deal at no risk to himself.” She fixed her gaze on the director who took another step back. “That, sir, is illegal under British law – and yes, I have handed my friend Mr. Holmes the documentation to prove your criminality!”

“I would also warn you, Mr. Jones, that the doctor and I will be keeping in contact with our new friends at the works”, Holmes said acidly. “If there is _any_ action taken against any of them by your Company – or for that matter if you are overly tardy in paying the bill for my services in returning you this large object - then Miss St. Leger's findings will be sent to every newspaper in London. Followed swiftly, I suspect, by the police calling at your door. Have a good day!”

And with that he led the way out of the sidings with myself and Miss St. Leger hurrying after him.

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_Notes:_   
_† 'Silver Blaze' is a fictional locomotive but the T19 class was real. Some 110 were built by the Great Eastern Railway (numbers 710-799 and 1010-1039) as 2-4-0 express locomotives around this time, and between 1905 and 1908 the sixty surviving locomotives were rebuilt as 4-4-0's. One unrebuilt engine, number 760, was one of only two engines the company owned to carry a name, 'Petrolea' as it was converted as an experimental oil-burning locomotive, but it lost it when it was 'normalized' in 1902. The last survivor was scrapped in 1944. Five Great Eastern locomotives are preserved along with two more built by their successor company the London & North Eastern Railway to G.E.R. designs, and plans are advanced to built two more, including a D15 class 4-4-0 to be named 'Phoenix' whose original unnamed predecessor did indeed pull the royal train._   
_‡ At least £11,000 ($14,000) at 2020 prices._

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	17. Case 125: The Corpse Now Arriving At 221A, Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. People coming and soliciting Holmes's help is one thing but when dead bodies are getting delivered right next door.... well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of the Grosvenor Square removal van.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: At the time of this story the term 'van', then still relatively new to the language and obviously an abbreviation of caravan from the desert traders, referred to a reinforced horse-drawn cart.

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One of the most famous elements of what eventually became the legend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes was our third place of residence, 221B Baker Street, from which he solved the vast bulk of his cases. As this story concerns that house and its origins I am going to take this belated opportunity to accede to the requests from several of my readers and tell them a little more about its past.

We had technically moved into 221B subsequent to and partly as a result of the events relayed in The Adventure of the Yellow Face back in 'Eighty-Three, even if I was immediately away in Egypt and Holmes only stayed there for a couple of brief periods during my absence. As I have mentioned before, the house was the right-hand third (i.e. the northern end) of what had been a larger building, one of the original houses erected when the builder Mr. William Baker had laid the street out in 1755 during the reign of King George the Second (then of course it was on the very edges of the mess that is London, not a core part like it is today). Mr. Edward Harley who had inherited the title Earl Oxford and Mortimer that same year wished to mark his accession by obtaining a three-storey country house near the City and paid for the building of this particular one of Mr. Baker's new properties, which due to the nobleman's Welsh roots was christened 'Glendower Mansion' after the famous Welsh rebel leader of the fifteenth century. That the city of Oxford was also where I had my first meeting with Holmes was just one of those strange coincidences ( and if he so much as mentions my rolling about on the floor, there will definitely be Pouting!).

The development of Regent's Park, named after the bloated future King George the Fourth born shortly after the house was built, marked the early years of this century and naturally led to more building in and around Baker Street which runs close to it; one can just see the western entrance to the park from our second-storey window. 'Glendower Mansion' acquired its number (221) as a result of this building; at the time it was the last house in the road as the short section beyond where the main road turned and became Park Street was within the Park's boundaries so building was prohibited. Then in 1853 the death of Edward Harley's great-nephew Alfred led to the earldom dying out and the house was sold to a developer who divided it into three still fair-sized family dwellings numbered 221, 221A and 221B, also erecting a nearly identical building next to it (numbers 223, 225 and 227) separated only by a moderately-sized alleyway leading through to Siddons Lane. Perhaps fortunately given some of the architectural monstrosities that I have seen in our capital, one condition of this was that 223-227 should be in a similar Mid-Georgian style to its neighbour. 

221B Baker Street subsequently passed into the possession of Mr. and Mrs. William Hudson which was how we found our own home there. And this story concerns one of our neighbours in 221A (not directly; our rooms lay on the opposite side from the dividing wall while their rooms were at the back). Neighbours who on moving in found a somewhat unusual object had manifested inside their newly-purchased wardrobe. 

A dead body.

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This case was brought to our attention by our illustrious landlady who knocked at our door one day and was bidden to enter. I looked up in surprise; I was sure that had not been the usual bell that presaged her advent with a client.

“I was wondering, sirs”, she said, “if you could see your way to entertaining a visit from the two ladies who have just moved in next door.”

I had seen the 'Grosvenor Square Furniture And Household Removals Company Incorporated' van outside next door when I had come back from my walk, and besides thinking that they possibly needed a snappier company name had thought little more of it.

“Of course”, Holmes smiled. “Did they mention what it is about?”

Our landlady shook her head.

“They are two elderly ladies, sirs, and I would go so far to say they are positively _distressed”_ , she said. “Beth – Mrs. Harrison – advised that they should call the police over the matter but they were horrified at the idea, so she suggested that they might see you first and then perhaps you could then contact Sergeant LeStrade for them.”

I bit back the uncharitable but quite accurate thought they we were highly unlikely to have either of our friendly local sergeants visit us by chance as Mrs. Hudson was not baking that day. The thought was barely formed when I realized Holmes was looking sharply at me. I sighed in a put-upon manner.

“It sounds most intriguing”, he said still looking reprovingly at me. “Pray send them up.”

She nodded and left, and a few moments later returned with our visitors. They were both indeed elderly but clearly ladies of quality. They were also, as our landlady had said, clearly upset over something. Holmes pulled chairs out for them at the table while Mrs. Hudson left, promising to send up tea and refreshments.

“It is so kind of you to see us like this, Mr. Holmes”, the taller of the two ladies said, addressing me. “Letitia and I have read all your cases avidly; we knew of course that you lived next door to our new abode but in light of.... well, it seems like Providence!”

I smiled.

“Actually I am Doctor Watson”, I said gesturing to my friend who was also smiling slightly. “ _That_ is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

They both turned to look across the room, and Lord help me if the taller one did not immediately simper at him! Honestly, she was old enough to be his grandmother! What was it about the man? 

No I was _not_ jealous! The very idea!

“My name is Miss Charlotte Beringar”, the simpering hussy said, “and this is my sister Letitia. We were due to move into our new rooms next door today but... but....”

She ground to a halt and looked appealingly at her sister who took up the tale (but not before throwing in her own simper, I noted not at all sourly and someone had better not be smirking any time soon!). 

“We had a small house in Grosvenor Square”, Miss Letitia Beringar said. “It was old, run-down and falling to pieces around us but we loved it very much. However it was becoming too much for us, especially after our only tenant came into a small inheritance and moved out to his own place. Then we had a piece of good luck. A representative of the Belgian government, a Mr. Vermery or some such name, offered to buy the house at considerably above its market value.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked suspiciously.

“His government was looking to obtain an embassy in the Square”, Miss Letitia Beringar explained. “We were very fortunate; the Smiths next door had provisionally accepted the offer made to them and Mr. Vermery told us that his country planned to knock the two houses into one; they would later seek to buy at least one of the other adjoining properties to make it larger still. He was a pleasant enough gentleman for a foreigner; he had to return to Belgium before the sale went through but another gentleman took over, a Mr. Fallaheim or something. I can never remember foreign names even though our city seems to be getting full of them.”

“Our house and that of the Smiths' were almost identical”, Miss Charlotte Beringar said, “and Mr. Smith had had his house valued so we knew that the sum that we had been offered was as we said well above what might have been expected. Even better, Mr. Fallaheim told us that there was no great hurry; we could secure somewhere for ourselves first and take our time moving out. We settled on taking rooms with Mrs. Harrison next door to you, sir, and hired a company to move all our worldly goods. Or at least the ones that we wanted to keep; when we sorted through our belongings it was frankly amazing just how many _accoutrements_ one somehow manages to acquire over the years.”

“Yes”, her sister put in, “and _that_ was what caused all the trouble!”

“How so?” Holmes asked politely.

“We found that our old wardrobe had become rotten at the back”, Miss Charlotte Beringar said, “so we decided to acquire a new one. I had recently visited a friend who lives near the docks and had seen a most delightful old piece in an antique shop there. The shopkeeper kindly measured it for me so that I could make sure it would fit in our new home and when I found that it would, we decided to buy it. I went back there to complete the sale two days ago. The removals men went to the shop to pick it up for us this morning then came back to the square to collect the rest of our belongings. Once they were here, they placed everything in the rooms as we had requested and left.”

“I did not like that Mr. Frick”, her sister said sourly. “He was not at all careful with the boxes. And he smelled of _alcohol!”_

A cruel observer might have remarked about someone being on their second sherry but I generously decided to refrain. And the bacon-stealer in the corner could stop with the disapproving look!

“That is true”, Miss Charlotte Beringar admitted. “Howsoever we then set about starting to unpack, I opened our new wardrobe and.... and....”

Her sister reached a supportive hand across. 

“And inside was a..... a _dead_ man, Mr. Holmes!” Miss Charlotte Beringar said. “Quite, quite dead!”

 _As opposed to only partially dead_ , I thought wryly. Holmes nodded sympathetically while somehow still contriving to send me a sharp look, and thought for a while before speaking.

“Ladies”, he said, “you have undergone a terrible experience through absolutely no fault of your own. Clearly this matter is serious and it must be investigated by the proper authorities.”

Both ladies shuddered at that prospect.

“I shall send a message round to my good friend Sergeant LeStrade”, Holmes said reassuringly. “He is _most_ discreet and I trust him implicitly. Once he arrives, we shall examine the body more closely. Am I to assume that the poor man is still in your rooms, Miss Beringar?”

Miss Charlotte Beringar nodded fitfully. I wondered if I had better slip down and prepare poor Mrs. Hudson for the shock of LeStrade arriving on a non-baking day. Loaves and and fishes were one thing but.... damnation if I was not getting another sharp look!

“That is good”, Holmes said, shaking his head at me. He took a card from his card-case and wrote something on the back of it before turning back to the taller sister. “Miss Beringar, Doctor Watson will accompany you next door where you must pack a bag for a period of some nights away from your new house. Although it is not technically the scene of a crime I suspect that neither of you would wish to stay there just now.”

“Indeed not!” Miss Charlotte Beringar said forcefully. “But where shall we go? I do not wish to call unannounced on any of our friends if I can avoid it, especially if those horrible newspaper men come after us.”

Holmes handed her the card. 

“When you are finished packing, the doctor will bring you back here then obtain a cab for you and your sister”, he said. He gestured to the card. “That hotel is where my brother Guilford is the manager. Ask at the desk for him by name, show this card and he will supply you with a room free of charge.”

“But sir....”

“I insist”, Holmes said firmly. “Besides, once this story reaches the papers they may as you said send journalists round to ask questions. That cannot be long; I have seen a small crowd gathering outside already. They will of course lose interest after a few days but I would not wish either of you dear ladies to be subject to even that. I am sure that Mrs. Hudson will let you leave through the door out into Siddons Lane; I will arrange for Sergeant LeStrade to call on you at the hotel later and take your statements. Now doctor, if you please?”

I stood and offered my arm to a shocked Miss Charlotte Beringar, who hesitated only briefly before taking it and following me from the room. Though she still managed one last simper at Holmes. Women these days!

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Half an hour later the simpering sisters were safely dispatched to one of the best hotels in London, while Holmes, LeStrade and myself were standing in the larger of the two bedrooms of Room Three in 221A Baker Street. It was in most ways a standard Victorian bedroom except perhaps for the dead man half-hanging out of the wardrobe. 

“They could have tidied him up a bit!” the sergeant grumbled as he and I gently lifted the body and laid it out on one of the beds (having first checked that there was no bleeding; I did not want even the simpering Beringars to come back to _that_ sort of house-warming present!). 

I glanced out of the window and sighed. Holmes had been right; there was now a sizeable crowd gathered outside 221A. Luckily we had avoided them as Mrs. Harrison had let us through the normally locked connecting door. 

I turned back and began to examine the dead man. He had been in his early twenties and there was something distinctly foreign about him with his long nose and perfumed auburn hair. He was wearing a shabby suit and the expression on his face was one of great shock, as if he had seen his end coming upon him. LeStrade rummaged quickly through his pockets.

“At least the ladies found a clue for us”, he said leafing through a leather wallet. “A card. 'Mr. Peter Davies', with an address in the City. He does not look like a Mr. Peter Davies.”

Holmes had been examining the dead man's hands and now turned his attention to the discarded suit jacket. I thought that he was going to ignore our friend's remark until he spoke.

“That is because he is not.”

LeStrade stared at him.

“How do you know that?” he demanded.

“Look at his left hand”, Holmes said, raising it for inspection, “and the wear between thumb and forefinger. This man is clearly a clerk of some description as he writes for a living. Yet his house-keys were in his _right-_ hand jacket pocket. They must have fallen out when he was being placed in the wardrobe and were put back by a right-handed man who put them where he himself would have kept them. The man who did that must also not have known this poor fellow, otherwise he would not have made such a mistake.”

LeStrade whistled his approval. 

“So he _is_ a foreigner, then”, he said. “Can't trust them an inch!”

I forbore from stating that someone who ate that much cake might do well not to annoy friends of part Irish and Scots extraction. Like my friend Hiram Bullivant, few could be as xenophobic as foreigners who become more English than the English. Annoyingly I still got a sharp look from some wiseacre in the room; I felt quite entitled to that eye-roll!

“I can be fairly sure as to the cause of death”, I said finishing my examination. “A very unusual one. He died of a heart-attack.”

LeStrade stared at me incredulously.

“He can't be more than twenty-five!” he objected.

“It may be that there was a congenital weakness in his heart which gave way under a level of stress that a normal man could have coped with”, I said, thinking back to the Manor House case and the fragility of the human body which that had reminded us of. “I would recommend a _post mortem_ to make certain but there are no wounds or injuries on his body, or at least none that I can see, and no signs of poison having been administered. Unless that attack was induced in some way by someone who had prior knowledge of his weakness this man died a natural death, although the expression on his face suggests that he saw whatever killed him at the end.”

“Then what the hell was he doing in those ladies' wardrobe?” LeStrade demanded.

“The Beringars were kind enough to provide us with information as to the name of the shop that produced both wardrobe and corpse”, Holmes said, unfolding a piece of paper. “Doctor, as it is the weekend I think that you and I might take a stroll over there. Who is the local sergeant, LeStrade?”

Our friend looked at the address on the paper.

“Penrose, at Milton Avenue”, he said. “A good sort; doesn't look up to much but he knows his stuff. You'd definitely do well to talk to him before you go onto his patch though. He's very protective, even by London standards.”

“We shall so do”, Holmes said.

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Sergeant Lorimer Penrose was further proof which I could have well done without that policemen – even sergeants - seemed to be getting ever younger. He looked at us suspiciously when we introduced ourselves although he visibly thawed when we mentioned LeStrade. 

“I have read all about you in the good doctor's stories, Mr. Holmes”, he said. “You have reason to think that a crime has been committed on my patch?”

“That is a difficult question to answer”, Holmes said. “It may be that no crime was committed at all. But until we visit Pangbourne Street I cannot know for certain.”

“I will come with you, then”, the sergeant said. “That road used to be my beat when I started here so I know it well. I will just let them know I am off out.”

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Pangbourne Street turned out to be relatively not unpleasant for the area, much to my surprise. Sergeant Penrose caught my expression.

“It used to be a lot worse”, he said, “but a fire came through twenty years back and destroyed a lot of the old buildings. They replaced most of the factories with houses. Where you want is one of the few places that survived the fire; it used to be a huge warehouse but they converted it into two smaller units.”

As we stood before an old building I saw what he meant. The right and central parts of the edifice had been taken over by a stonemason's workshop, which was clearly very busy. To the left was the shop that the Beringars must have purchased their wardrobe from, which also sold antiques and other curios. I turned to speak to my friend only to see he was smiling.

“As I thought”, he said. “Sergeant, if these were all one building would there still be access between the three businesses in there now?”

“I do not know, sir”, the policeman admitted.

“Then let us find out!” Holmes said striding towards the shop.

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It said something for the London gossip network that even though the story of the body in the wardrobe had not hit the newspapers as yet, the shop owner Mr. Felix Leowitz knew what had happened. He was about fifty, greying and had a pair of unusual light green eyes. I felt instinctively that this man could probably sell me London Bridge if he put his mind to it. I did not hide behind Holmes but it was close.

“Such a tragedy”, he said leaning on the counter as he spoke to us. “Gentlemen, may I presume to ask a question?”

“Of course”, Holmes said.

“Was the wardrobe _locked_ when Miss Beringar opened it?”

Holmes looked at me.

“Yes”, I said. “I asked her that when I saw her off to the hotel, and she said that she had had to get the key from the removal men. They had nearly gone off with it.”

The shop-owner looked meaningfully at us.

“Ah”, Holmes said.

“What?” I asked.

“The wardrobe was _not_ locked when it left this shop”, my friend said. “Yet when Miss Beringar went to open it in her room, it was. Therefore something happened between the shop and her room, and only the delivery men had access to the key.”

“Or Fred's men”, Mr. Leowitz put in. We all looked at him in confusion.

“Who is 'Fred'?” I asked.

“Mr. Leighton, who runs the stonemason's next door”, he explained. “The wardrobe was a bit big for my own door – I had fitted one of those fancy top parts to it – so Fred offered two of his men to carry it round the back and through his works out to the men at the front. It was safer that way.”

I noticed that both Holmes's and the sergeant's eyes were gleaming at this revelation.

“I think that Mr. Leighton might just have a few questions to answer”, the sergeant said quietly. “Thank you for your time Mr. Leowitz. Your information has been invaluable.”

“One more question, if I may”, Holmes said. “Do you happen to know if a Mr. Peter Davies works in the stonemason's?”

The shop-owner looked surprised.

“No”, he said, “but he may be related to the owner's brother-in-law who is a Mr. Nicholas Davies. I do hope that gentleman is not involved in this sorry business; I had always thought him a decent fellow.”

“I hope so too”, Holmes said.

A coin changed hands, and my friend and the sergeant went through the door. I was about to follow when the shop-owner called me back.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

He gestured to a small case which he had just placed on the counter-top. It was silver and not overly ornate.

“Ideal to keep a pipe in”, he said with a knowing smile.

“I do not smoke”, I pointed out.

“Or as a present for someone?” he suggested. “Even if a pipe is not in use, it needs protecting.”

I remembered that Christmas was as ever approaching far too fast. I knew what his original pipe meant to Holmes, one of two reminders he had of the late Lord Tobias Hawke who he had idolized as a boy. I sighed, took out my wallet and paid the price on the label. The shop-owner wrapped it up for me and handed me my receipt.

“Good hunting, doctor”, he said, as I hurried after my friend. I caught up with him by the stonemason's door where he was giving the floor a hard stare.

“Our victim worked here”, he said.

“How do you know that?” the sergeant demanded.

“Because as well as the ink-marks on his hands there was also a small quantity of stone dust ingrained under his finger-nails”, Holmes explained. “I thought as much and they do indeed work Chilmark stone here. The question is, how exactly did he meet his end?”

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Mr. Frederick Leighton was not pleased to see us, though he could hardly say so openly.

“I am very busy, gentlemen”, he said brusquely. 

The businessman was about forty years of age, heavily tanned as if he had been in foreign parts, short and muscular. The other man in the room was much taller and anaemic-looking though of much the same age. 

“My brother-in-law Mr. Nicholas Davies”, Mr. Leighton said. “Gentlemen, can this not wait?”

“No”, Holmes said curtly, “'this' cannot.”

He sat down in one of the chairs and stared thoughtfully at both men. There was a pained silence.

“I do hope that you are both aware”, my friend said slowly, “that the concealment of a death is in itself a very serious criminal offence, regardless of any involvement in causing said death. Your only hope, gentlemen, is to come clean with us and tell us _exactly_ what happened to cause a body to unexpectedly appear in a wardrobe that came through these premises. Otherwise the full force of a criminal investigation will be visited upon these works, with all the publicity that that would entail.”

Mr. Leighton flushed a horrible shade of white. His brother-in-law scowled and stood up.

“Threats will not avail you here, Mr.....”

“Holmes”, my friend said. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Please sit down, Mr. Davies. If you must start moving dead bodies around then you must expect the consequences to be somewhat unpleasant.”

The man scowled again but sat down. Mr. Leighton sighed.

“We didn't know”, he said flatly.

“Fred...” his brother-in-law began.

“No, Nick”, the manager said sternly. “He's right. I suppose it was my fault, sort of, but I just didn't think..... well....”

His voice trailed off then he seemed to pull himself together.

“We had a rush consignment the last few days, shipping to a Norman cathedral on a boat leaving noon today”, he began. “Everyone was stressed out even though I'd promised the men ten per cent extra in their pay packets if we met the deadline. We did, with less than half an hour to spare.”

“Perhaps you had better tell us who the victim was”, Holmes prompted.

“Mick MacHeath, an Ulsterman”, the manager said. “We employed him three months back because he was a wizard with figures, though he was so anal about it – the merest halfpenny discrepancy and you'd have thought it was the end of the world!”

“Ha'penny wise, pound foolish”, I said sagely.

“You may be right”, Mr. Leighton conceded. “Just as we were racing against the clock and looking like we might lose he decided to make a fuss about another problem that he claimed to have found. I just wasn't in the mood so I.... I did something rather petty. I had one of those toy spiders I had bought for my children and I placed it in his ledger, so it would bounce up when released. I thought it would just give him a shock!”

“It did”, I said, glaring at him. _“A fatal one!”_

“I wasn't to know!” Mr. Leighton said defensively. “Nick was with me when I found the body and we... well, we panicked. Then I remembered that that idiot Jew next door was having someone come and pick up a big piece and that he had asked if they might come through my works to get it out. It was just too easy. Nick and I went round there, took the wardrobe into our works and put the boy inside it.”

Mr. Davies put his head in his hands.

“Your attempt to give the man an alternate identity by placing one of your brother's cards in his wallet was ingenious”, Holmes said, “and we might have traced it to someone who presumably is still very much alive and have thus thought it a blind. However it instead enabled us to confirm your involvement. It was also you who put the keys back into the dead man's jacket pocket.”

Mr. Davies looked at him in astonishment.

“How did you know that?” he demanded

“Elementary”, Holmes said. “Mr. Leighton here worked with Mr. MacHeath. He would have known that the fellow was _left-_ handed whereas you instinctively placed the keys back in his _right-_ hand jacket pocket where you and the majority of men would have kept them, and he did not notice your error.”

The taller man groaned.

“This is all very well”, Sergeant Penrose said, “but a crime has been committed here.”

“Would a jury convict?” I asked dubiously. 

“I have a better suggestion”, Holmes said. “Did Mr. MacHeath have any relatives?”

“Only his grandmother”, Mr. Leighton said, “who came over with him. Reluctantly; he said that she always missed the Emerald Isle and she would have gone back if it hadn't have been for him. Probably will now.”

“Very well”, Holmes said. He fixed the owner with a stern glare. “Mr. Leighton, this is _your_ mess and unless you want a criminal charge and the almost certain ruination of your business, then _you_ will have to fix it.”

The manager went pale again.

“You will pay for Mr. MacHeath's grandmother to return to Ireland”, Holmes said firmly, “and you will cover _all_ the funeral expenses even if she wants him buried in his homeland. You will then set up a fund to provide her with a generous pension for the rest of her life. Otherwise” - he shook a warning finger at the manager - “Doctor Watson will have a most interesting new case to publicize!”

“It shall be done!” Mr. Leighton said fervently.

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Postscriptum: Mr. MacHeath's grandmother turned out to be a Mrs. Ringwould and she did indeed wish to go back to Ireland and to have her grandson buried there. She was seventy-four years old at the time but she defied expectations (and quite probably the hopes of Mr. Leighton's wallet!) by living on for a further nineteen years. Soon after she passed Mr. Leighton sold his business and emigrated with his brother-in-law to western Canada. Both gentlemen have since passed.

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	18. Case 126: The Adventure Of The Five Orange Pips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. As the old music-hall song so rightly says; 'to have a happy live-long life, keep ye no secrets from the wife'. One gentleman ignores that sage advice – and as so often happens truth (i.e. Holmes) finds him out. Meanwhile Watson stares down the sides of a ship.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Like me, Holmes was despite his Hibernian descent a quintessentially English gentleman in so many ways. Indeed he preferred if possible to stay in or at least close to London as much as possible, presumably fearful that in his absence the criminal fraternity would immediately start running amok! Ironically it was this case, which took us to two places that were English and yet not in England, which presaged our first and only visit to the Continent and a whole plethora of cases which showed that my friend's abilities, like a good wine, travelled exceptionally well. A most memorable time which led to... we shall come to that later.

This case took place initially in the county of Monmouthshire, technically English and yet also Welsh, whose motto 'Usque Fidelis' ('Faithful to Both') I had wanted to be the title to this story. However the killjoys at the 'Strand' magazine insisted that this would be over the heads of many of my readers, and much as I disagreed with that assessment I was forced to comply. Yet the story did indeed feature someone who was, despite the contortions it caused, faithful to two different causes. Also two different ladies, although bigamy was not involved. 

Well, not in the strictest sense of the word....

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The case can be dated from the very day after we (Holmes) solved the Grosvenor Square removal van case. It had topped off a hectic couple of weeks in which there had been a run of such small to medium cases which I had noted with some alarm was visibly tiring the great man, on top of certain familial difficulties which of course I cannot divulge but which bore down heavily on him. Some of them involved more visits from my least favourite lounge-lizard, which reminded me: I really needed to check on my stock of dangerous medicines. One never knew just when one might need them.....

Fortunately my friend Peter Greenwood came to our aid, telling me that he had recently acquired a rental on a cottage in the Monmouthshire village of Skenfrith just across the border with Herefordshire, and asking if I would like to take my friend there for a couple of weeks as his wife was pregnant (with their sixth child, the dog!) and suffering some horrible morning-sickness so they could not go this year. I half-expected Holmes to refuse but to my surprise he said that he would enjoy a break. The 'from my family' was unspoken but there nonetheless. 

It was not only my friend who needed a rest; we were short-staffed at the surgery and the recent case had been the only one that I had been able to accompany Holmes on. I had also suffered a back injury after slipping on a pavement which had not helped matters, and today I had had a set of clients who seemed to live in the four corners of the City so I had arrived home exhausted, my back aching like never before. Holmes was out and I found a note stating that he was having another unwilling dinner at the family home but would be back immediately after. I therefore had to dine alone and was about turn in when he slouched through the doorway looking even more bedraggled than usual. I was going to ask him how things had gone but he spoke first.

“Your back is giving you trouble?” he asked, visibly concerned.

It said something of the man that, beset as he was by his own troubles, he still found time to concern himself about others. I smiled at him.

“Where Mrs. Bannister thumped me with her walking-stick for having the temerity to give her those tablets that she did not like the taste of”, I said, remembering with a shudder the crotchety old woman in Bagshot Mews. She had actually complained to the surgery about me but thankfully Mrs. Fotheringay, who had taken over after Miss Peabody's retirement, had told her that she would be charged extra for attacking one of the surgery's staff, would not be attended again until she had apologized, and was lucky that the police were not being called in - yet. The old hag had taken her business elsewhere; she had grudgingly paid her bill after a further threat of legal action and I had somehow gotten over the terrible loss (technically it had not been a _celebration_ chocolate cake that Holmes had bought me from Branksome's, although I had had to eat it all quickly as those things went off so fast).

“That was nearly two weeks ago”, he frowned. “You are still hurting?”

“Peter recommended that I go to Bath or Harrogate for a week or two to take the waters”, I admitted. “However I am looking forward to seeing the southern Welsh March as I greatly enjoyed our time in Montgomeryshire. It is fortunate that the practice can spare me; Hiram Bullivant gets back tomorrow from Baden-Baden where his god-daughter is getting married. That is one place that I would have loved to go to.”

“Well, we shall see what healing properties the March possesses”, my friend smiled. “Goodnight, Watson.”

“Goodnight”, I yawned and all but fell through my door to reach the heaven of my bed.

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On the appointed day we went to Paddington to catch a Great Western Railway train to Hereford whence we took a Cardiff-bound train as far as the village of Pontrilas. From there we had to take a carriage for several miles but the early autumn weather was sunny without the oppressive heat of the capital and we soon reached our destination, which was a most charming village. Holmes was already looking a little better and I congratulated myself on getting him away from the stresses and strains of his profession for a while at least.

Our first week in the valley passed uneventfully. The village boasted a ruined castle and a beautiful thirteenth-century church, both of which I enjoyed exploring. We hired horses and rode into the nearby town of Monmouth one day, which we found pleasant. On another day we journeyed through the beautiful Golden Valley to the charming town of Hay-on-Wye and also visited the ruins of the nearby Clifford Castle, a place with a connection to the family whose descendants built 'Glendower Mansion', later 221-221B Baker Street. I was glad to be away from the stifling summer heat of the capital and Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself even if his hair was worse than ever in the winds blowing along the March. It was strange given that his appearance had as I said otherwise improved immeasurably during my absence in Egypt, but I supposed that miracles took a little longer.

Even in sort-of Wales, the way that he timed his look to when I was thinking that was still creepy!

On the first day of our second week we took in the famous and breathtakingly beautiful gorge at nearby Symonds Yat. The following day we went out for a long morning walk and returned for luncheon at the local inn. I had planned to spend the afternoon visiting the church again but when we called back at the cottage for a quick cup of coffee (I had been wise enough to pack plenty of Holmes's favourite brand for the duration, if only for my own safety!) we found someone waiting for us. She was a young lady of about twenty-five years of age, plainly dressed but well-presented.

“They tell me that you are the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, she said in a melodious tone. “Is that true?”

I resisted an urge to groan. Honestly, were we not safe even in an out-of-the-way place like this? Holmes smiled at our visitor.

“Indeed I am”, he said, “and this is Doctor Watson. How may we be of service?”

_(All right, the 'we' made me feel just a bit better)._

“I think that my husband may be seeing another woman!”

We both stared at her in surprise. I recovered first.

“I shall get the coffee”, I said.

He smiled at me.

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“My name is Mrs. Hannah Jones”, the lady said having taken a seat. “I have been troubled by dear Ivor's behaviour for some time now and your arrival here seems providential.”

 _Not for my chances of getting my poor, tired friend to take a rest_ , I thought a little sourly.

“Pray tell us how this all began”, Holmes asked.

“I should begin by telling you that our union was difficult from the start”, she explained. “I was born Hannah Mortimer, the only daughter to the richest family in the village, while Ivor's father came to the area as a navvy when they built the railway through to Abergavenny. He chose to remain and Ivor followed him in his work, helping build the line up the Golden Valley. He is some eleven years older than me; he was twenty-seven to my sixteen when we first met but I loved him and I was blessed in that he returned my affections.”

I could guess what had happened next and she swiftly proved me correct.

“My father not only refused the match but arranged for him to be sent to work in London at a shipping company”, she said. “However we remained in contact through the general post, albeit much to Father's disapproval. I am sure that he only allowed that because he feared that I was strong-headed enough to take myself off and join him if I was denied all contact. He did arrange several 'chance encounters' with local single gentlemen whom he considered far more suitable, but I declined them all.”

“Go on”, Holmes urged.

“Ivor prospered in his work”, she said, “and later moved to Liverpool where he became the deputy manager for the company's ships to Ireland and the Isle of Man. He returned to the village for a visit five and a half years ago and again sought my hand in marriage; he was thirty-one then and I was nearly twenty. Father was still not happy but I made it clear that he was the one I wanted to marry, and we were joined in matrimony soon after.”

“When did things start going wrong?” Holmes asked.

“I can name the date exactly”, she said, “for it was a most strange event that marked it. It was September the tenth, three weeks to the day after our marriage. A letter came to the house and I could see at once that it was unusual. The envelope seemed too thin to contain paper yet there was definitely something inside. Since Ivor was away in Ireland I opened it as we had agreed. It contained precisely five orange pips, and nothing else. I thought it very odd, and when I mentioned it to him on his return he looked most alarmed but told me that it was probably just a joke. I did not believe him but I let the matter drop.”

“Did you happen to note where the letter came from?” Holmes asked.

She shook her head.

“All I can say is that it was English”, she said, “and that it had three postmarks on it although I do not recall what they were. It was also exceptionally poorly-addressed so it may have gone astray, which led me to think that whoever posted it most likely expected Ivor to still be here to receive it; he had only left two days before it came. It was soon after that that I noticed a change in my husband. He spent longer away in Liverpool on business, although when he was home he was more attentive than ever.”

“But you fear that those attentions are driven by guilt”, Holmes said shrewdly. “This sounds most intriguing, Miss Jones. I am to presume that there have been more letters since?”

She nodded.

“Last year Llew, the postman, mentioned that he had had 'an odd letter' for Ivor”, she said. “He said that it had something small and metal inside of it. It must have come while I was out and my husband never mentioned it to me. And last week....”

She hesitated.

“Go on”, Holmes urged.

She took a deep breath.

“I should not have done so”, she said looking down, “but a few days ago I needed to post a letter urgently and had no stamps. I knew that Ivor had some in his desk so I opened a draw looking for them. As well as the five pips I found a four of diamonds playing card, a triangular set-square, two white feathers and a metal number one of the sort that they use as house numbers. I guessed that it was counting down to something, and this year would be when it reaches nought.”

Holmes thought for a few moments.

Tell me”, he said, “is your husband currently away in Lancashire?”

“He is”, she said. “I fear....”

She stopped. I could guess pretty much what she feared, and she was most probably all too right.

“Let us not indulge in idle speculation”, Holmes said firmly. “We need _facts_. When is your husband due to return here?”

“He said in his last letter that it will not be for two more weeks now”, she said, looking miserable. “He has been delayed an extra five days 'on business'.”

The doubt in her words was palpable. I too wondered what – or who – that 'business' was.

“I have one more question”, Holmes said, shaking his head at me for some reason, “and it is a little indelicate but needs must. You said that your husband was doing well at his job when he resumed his suit but clearly something else happened around that time. What was it?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“An inheritance”, she said. “A great-uncle of his passed on and the estate was split amongst his many relatives. Ivor received just over two hundred and fifty pounds† and that has left us well off ever since. That was why he felt able to ask for my hand in marriage, once he was sure that he could support me. But how did you know about that?”

“Give the way that you described him I doubted that your father could be won over so easily and so soon”, Holmes said. “This is a strange matter you have set before us, Mrs. Jones. I rather think that we need to visit your husband in person and preferably while he is about his business. Fortunately we can finish our holiday here and then proceed northwards. We shall of course communicate our findings to you as soon as we have any.”

“Thank you, sir”, she smiled.

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“Do you think that he has another wife in Ireland or something?” I asked once Mrs. Jones was safely gone.

“Anything is possible”, he said with a yawn. “You had better go and see your old church before we are beset by more people seeking our help in this bustling metropolis of a village!”

I chuckled.

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Mercifully the rest of our holiday passed quietly enough and a week later we were working our way cross-country up to Liverpool, a bustling place indeed. Upon inquiring at the shipping offices Holmes discovered that Mr. Jones hardly ever travelled to the Emerald Isle but did make frequent trips to the Isle of Man and was indeed due to sail there in two days' time.

We arrived back at our hotel to find a telegram from London. Holmes read it and smiled. 

“It is from Randall”, he said. “Apparently he is in the middle of a devastating political crisis and he wants me back in London to help as soon as possible.”

“He put that in a telegram?” I asked, surprised.

“The message actually states that dear Aunt Ada is ill and not expected to last the week”, he explained. “He writes in code, as always. But I shall not return until we have solved this case. He knows better than to push for more.”

Having seen Holmes's temper when roused I could vouch for that. His brother had been banished from 221B for a week after he had demanded he abandon a case because he was 'needed'. A whole week without seeing the ghastly lounge-lizard. Bliss!

Holmes was smiling at me again. I really wished that he would switch off his mind-reading abilities occasionally!

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We tracked down Mr. Jones just as he boarded the boat to the island. He was a pleasant-enough looking fellow, mid-thirties as we had been told although frankly I could not see why our client had held out so long for him. Unfortunately I was fated to endure another unpleasant sea-crossing and was never more glad to see land in the form of Douglas, the capital of the island, from the side of the ship down which my stomach contents had just gone. Our quarry was due to spend one night on the island and I silently thanked him when he immediately adjourned to a nearby hotel and did not leave his room for the rest of the day.

“Though he had a visitor”, Holmes said over dinner that evening (showing far more foresight that I, he had purchased some stomach powders in Liverpool so at least my stomach had stopped heaving). “A man by the name of Mr. Ernest Wiseman who brought a set of papers with him to the room and left them behind when he left.”

“I am surprised that you do not know the contents of the documents as well”, I chuckled.

“I can only say that they were legal documents of some sort”, Holmes said, “as they bore distinctive markings. Mr. Wiseman works for a firm of lawyers here in Douglas. We shall need to be up early tomorrow to follow our prey wherever he goes.”

“What makes you think that he is going somewhere?” I asked.

“Elementary”, he said. “If he had business only here in Douglas he could have saved himself the expense of a night at a hotel and returned by the evening ferry, instead of which he has booked himself on the later one tomorrow. That suggests a journey out and back of some distance especially since this is not a large island, and I rather doubt that it is solely for company business. We shall soon see.”

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The following morning the weather was much better. A mercifully caffeinated Holmes was waiting for me at breakfast; I still remembered with horror the terrible day a few months ago when Mrs. Hudson had run out of coffee. I had had to delay going into work to make an emergency run to fetch him some, and I had not smirked at all at the happy whimpering as he had re-caffeinated himself very thoroughly.

Yes, of course I had got a sharp look anyway, Come on, this was Holmes!

“Mr. Jones's porter relates that he has ordered a timetable for the line south to Port Erin”, my friend told me over breakfast eyeing my bacon enviously. He had more than me on his plate but I still forked half of mine across, earning myself a grateful look. 

“We shall be able to let the train take the strain”, I smiled back content with my remaining rashers, sausages and eggs, while wondering if Holmes was attempting to drown his prize in a sea of ketchup. The man was a grub at times!

Still he was my grub, and I would not have changed him for the whole wide world!

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There was a telegram for Holmes that came just as he was finishing breakfast and he smiled as he read it. He would not tell me the contents and was on Lord alone knows what number coffee when I saw our quarry leaving the hotel. Fortunately we did not have to hurry after him as the station was just around the corner so a certain someone was again fully re-caffeinated before we set off.

The trains on the island turned out to be narrow-gauge ones though not as small as I had feared. Our first-class carriage (which Holmes insisted on as our quarry had a third-class ticket) was very comfortable and I enjoyed trundling along through the pleasant countryside while Holmes checked at each stop to see if our quarry was alighting. As things turned out he was destined for Port Erin, the last station on the line south and a charming little fishing port. I do not consider myself a 'tourist type' but even I could see the appeal of somewhere like this. 

Mr. Jones alighted from some way along the platform and was almost immediately met by two people, another man of about his own age or perhaps a little older, and a most attractive young girl of about eighteen years of age. The other man shook hands with our quarry who then hugged the girl tightly - and kissed her! I looked at Holmes in shock.

“She is almost young enough to be his daughter!” I hissed.

The realization only slowly came to me. He raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing.

 _“Is she?”_ I ventured.

He said nothing. Mr. Jones had finished embracing the girl and spoke a few quiet words to the other man before the three of them walked away into the town. I stared after them in shock.

“Poor Mrs. Jones”, I said at last. “I wonder what she will say when she finds out?”

Holmes looked at his watch.

“As her boat from Liverpool got in about ten minutes ago, I dare say that we shall soon know”, he said airily. “She will just make the next train down.”

He walked away while I was still recovering.

“Hey, wait a minute....”

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The three people we were following went for lunch at a small hotel on the sea front and we slipped in a little after them. Holmes ordered lunch but I was almost too nervous to eat although fortunately they had chocolate cake so I managed to force some down. I also had to finish Holmes's slice as he found it too rich for his tastes. 

A middle-aged woman came up after about an hour and the girl left with her. Holmes kept checking his watch and after a while stood up and ushered me over to the three of them. 

“May we join you, gentlemen?” he asked politely. Mr. Jones looked at him curiously.

“I have seen you somewhere before”, he said and his tone was definitely wary. “Who are you, sir?”

“We enjoyed a holiday in your beautiful home county of Monmouthshire recently and I chanced to speak with your good lady wife”, Holmes said easily. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor John Watson.”

Mr. Jones had gone pale. His friend looked at us in confusion.

“Is something wrong, Ivor?” he asked. He had a faint foreign accent, possibly Dutch I thought. 

“Where is the girl?” Holmes asked bluntly.

“With my wife”, the man said. “I am Mr. Willem Benson. What is going on?”

“Your friend here is guilty of a mild deception”, Holmes said, “of which I suspect you are an integral part, sir. The girl is an important part of his life yet he concealed her existence from his wife. When the good lady became suspicious she took advantage of my presence in her village to ask me to investigate.”

Mr. Jones groaned.

“You cannot tell her!” he said bitterly. “She would never understand!”

“I would never understand what, Ivor?”

I really thought that Mr. Jones was about to pass out if not expire right there and then. He spun round so quickly that he almost fell from his chair and the sight of his wife standing there made him go first white, then red.

“Hannah!” he gasped.

“Pray take a seat, Mrs. Jones”, Holmes said courteously, “and I shall explain what has happened. Thanks to my cousin Luke's efforts I now know what your husband has been keeping from you these past five years. I am pleased to assure you that it is not as bad as either it - or he - looks.”

That could have been true as Mr. Jones looked terrible. His wife sat down, eyeing him more than a little warily. He all but collapsed back into his chair.

“I shall say at the start that there will have to be an element of forgiveness for matters to continue”, Holmes said. “Though he remained in contact with and loved Miss Mortimer as you were then, Mr, Jones was a young man subject to the temptations of life in a busy port. Most young men commit at least one indiscretion upon such occasions and Mr. Jones was no exception. Except that his indiscretion led to a pregnancy.”

Mrs. Jones gasped. 

“The girl.....” she began.

“No”, Holmes said firmly. “Unhappily the lady in question chose to pursue the pregnancy despite medical advice and died in childbirth, as did her child. Mr. Jones had behaved like the gentleman he had been ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time and had even offered to marry her – she had refused - but when she knew that she was dying she had extracted a promise from him. Namely to take care of her only other family, a much younger sister.”

I gasped. Suddenly I had got it.

“The girl's family was perhaps understandably horrified at this and refused all contact”, Holmes went on. “However about five years ago they were killed during a burglary at their house and the dead girl's sister then some fifteen years of age became the ward of you, Mr. Benson. Acting on an agreement that you had made with Mr. Jones whom you had kept informed of the girl's progress, on her sixteenth birthday you sent him an envelope containing five orange pips. This was a covert way of communicating to your friend here that the girl had five years to go before she would reach twenty-one. Fortunately she was the sole beneficiary of a substantial estate so there was no problem with money....”

“I have only ever used that for Margaret's benefit”, Mr. Jones said firmly.

“I believe you”, Holmes said. “However, the Fates were against you. The very first of the reminder letters was delayed and chanced to fall into the hands of Mrs. Jones here who, not unnaturally, was more than a little alarmed by your refusing to tell her about it.”

Mr. Jones groaned again and put his head in his hands.

“I see”, Mrs. Jones said slowly. “Indeed. Ivor, what is it to be?”

He looked up, his face fearful.

“You would not make me choose!” he begged. “Please!”

She sighed in that put-upon way that women (and certain consulting detectives that I could mention!) do so well.

“I was actually wondering whether you wanted to move here or have the girl come to Monmouthshire with us?”

He looked at her in astonishment. Holmes nudged me to leave.

Women! I would never understand them!

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“I suppose that I can see why he did not tell her”, I said once we were back in my room. “I am only glad that it was not as bad as I had thought.”

“Given appearances, I can understand why you may have assumed the worst”, he said with a smile. “But one should never assume. In his telegram Luke also told me that the current political crisis is over but that Randall now has a nice new one brewing and that it may yet involve yet another sea-crossing, this time to the Continent.”

I winced at the prospect. King Neptune very clearly hated me!

“He wants you to go Abroad?” I asked, suddenly realizing with horror just what that meant. My friend might be away from me for months, weeks, even years...

He was looking at me in confusion.

“Randall can want whatever he wants”, he said firmly, “but there is no way I would ever go anywhere without you, Watson.”

I blushed fiercely.

“Even back across that rough Irish Sea!” he teased.

I pouted. Damnation! I had forgotten about that!

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The weather turned bad again that same afternoon so we spent two more days on the island while the storm passed. Holmes only had to ignore seven more telegrams from an increasingly frantic lounge-lizard of a brother so that I could return to England on a calm sea. Yes, I had a _good_ friend – which as things were about to turn out was just as well.....

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_Notes:_   
_† About £27,500 ($35,000) at 2020 prices._

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	19. Interlude: Then Came Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. A certain consulting detective does nothing – unfortunately.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I would have been a poor detective indeed if I had ignored the growing number of warning signs concerning my relationship with Watson. Once I had become aware of my talents and resolved to use them to bring justice where I could, I knew that in so doing I would make many enemies, often of the sort for whom arranging the termination of a man's life was some trifling inconvenience to fit in between luncheon and a trip to the barber's. Hence the odds of my making old bones had always seemed remote and I had counted my blessings that I was not the sort of person to incur emotional attachments (or as my tactless brother Randall called it, a bloody cold fish, in answer to which I always shot back that saying about pots and kettles). 

Watson, despite all my efforts, got in under all my defences. One of the things that drove me to anger over his earlier works was the reaction in some quarters that he was merely the scribe who reported my humble achievements to the masses or, as one newspaper reader most crudely put it, 'along for the free ride'; I made clear my fury to that excuse for a reporter in person, demanding and obtaining both a retraction and an apology. How dare he criticize _my_ Watson!

_(I concede that perhaps I myself have been slightly less than complimentary about his writings to start with, but that is not the point!)._

Another charge often levelled at Watson, particularly from his own brother who really should have known better, was that my friend was the original 'cold fish' when it came to anything to do with emotions. This was unfair, especially as the same accusation could with far greater accuracy have been levelled at my good self. I knew that I was getting ever closer to the man I... to my friend, My annoying stepbrother Campbell was right; I knew that my feelings for him were beyond what was wise and such as he could never reciprocate, and I knew that it would all end in trouble. Yet still I did nothing. 

Then without warning, trouble came.

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	20. Interlude: Fight And Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1887\. Watson has to leave the country again – but this time he does not go alone!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Four days after our return from the Isle of Man I was called out to treat one Mrs. Katherine Beddowes-Griffin, widow of the then recently-departed Conservative member for parliament for Derbyshire, Mr. James Beddowes-Griffin. Apparently the woman had thought herself pregnant by her late husband which at fifty would have been surprising (given her appearance and general demeanour, not far short of miraculous!) and it had taken me a long time to convince her that she was not in line for a happy event. Undertaking a physical examination of her was bad enough without her 'tripping' and nearly falling on me; fortunately I dodged the harridan and she ended up sprawled on the carpet. I mentioned her to Holmes that evening and even he shuddered; I could only hope that some other unlucky doctor at the practice drew the short straw the next time she fancied herself in need of medical help.

Everything went to hell in a handcart the very next day when 221B was befouled with the arrival of one Mr. Anthony Gromell, Mrs. Beddowes-Griffin’s solicitor. Apparently the woman was claiming that I had 'fondled' her during his examination the day before (I would sooner have 'fondled' her pet pug!) and that she was suing me for assault! Holmes was at first incredulous and then furious at such vile accusations, and it was one of the rare times that I had ever seen him lose his temper. The oleaginous Mr. Gromell fairly sprinted out of our rooms and I took great pleasure in watching from the window as Holmes pursued him some way down Baker Street! The litigious bastard!

Although Holmes immediately contacted his mother and secured her support in setting the family's expensive legal team against the foul Mrs. Beddowes-Griffin and her equally unpleasant legal lap-dog, I was deeply worried. That I could disprove the accusations against me was not so much the issue, especially when Miss St. Leger called on us that same day (having of course heard of our troubles). She told me that Mr. Swordland wished to offer me his company's services free of charge and I owed her much for the kindness. No, it was the damage that I knew this would do to my reputation. Even when – or if - I was cleared it would be like Peter Greenwood's brother Rory, losing countless clients because the snide newspapers would doubtless mutter something along the lines of 'no smoke without fire' (even if Holmes had growled that any of them who did would be his family's legal team's next target!). Rory Greenwood was still striving to get back to where he had been before the Brackhampton case had twice wrecked his professional life and I dreaded the thought of having to go through all that myself. I would also have wagered a year's salary on at least one newspaper bringing up my traitorous grandfather Sacheverell just to rub salt into the wound.

Only one brief moment lightened the autumnal gloom; I learned that Holmes's eldest brother Mycroft, in an act of stupidity incredible even by his 'standards', had voiced his disagreement with Holmes's mother's supporting me and she had promptly boxed his ears! When the obnoxious Mr. Randall Holmes had visited one time and looked like he was about to raise the subject, Holmes mentioned that the Incident of the Two Under-Housemaids might just be 'accidentally' passed on to Mother that same day. I had not known the lesser spotted the better lounge-lizard could turn that shade of red!

Someone may or may not have sent Lady Holmes an anonymous telegram around that time. Possibly. But I wore gloves, so there were no finger-prints.

It took barely a few hours for Miss St. Leger to discover that the vile Mrs. Beddowes-Griffin had tried this ramp when her first husband, a bank clerk, had died, and had successfully ruined a fellow doctor gaining herself (and her legal partner in crime) a considerable sum in the process. Holmes after consultation with me demanded that she quit the country and sign over the bulk of her wealth to her step-daughter Anne, to be run by independent lawyers on the latter's behalf for the next five years until she reached twenty-one or else he would ruin the harridan and take everything that she had (I also made sure to ask that she recompense her first victim). The girl was already being raised by Mrs. Beddowes-Griffin's sister Mrs. Woodbridge as her mother had thus far shown absolutely no interest in her.

The newspaper coverage was as bad as I had feared and I grew steadily more depressed as the days passed even when my tormentor agreed to the terms which included a full apology in all the main London newspapers. Unfortunately as I had guessed it would, this simply led to the 'no smoke without fire' thing, and worse, there were no major stories or scandals to distract people so my name remained on or around the front pages for far longer than I had hoped. I knew that Holmes was worried for me because he refused to take on any new cases at this time, but all I could seem to do was skulk in 221B and wait for the storm to die down.

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“Do you remember me mentioning that there may be a case Abroad that would require my attention?” Holmes asked one morning over breakfast. 

I had just handed him half my bacon as usual. I nodded and stared dully at the newspaper, barely even registering the front page except to note thankfully that I was not on it. 

“I would have thought that that was over and done with by now”, I said.

“It has instead become rather more serious”, he said. “As in urgent. As in needing action this very day. Would you be able to come with me?” 

“Of course”, I said unhesitatingly. “Where is it? France?”

“The case involves us travelling to the island of Heligoland in the German Ocean”, he said. “One of our few gains from the Napoleonic Wars, you once told me. I know that you do not like sea-crossings so we could go via Dover and Calais if you would prefer. That would cut the time spent at sea by half.”

“What is it about?” I yawned.

“I do not know as yet”, he admitted. “Randall is over there now; he did not go into details but his message was of great urgency even by his standards so it must be bad if not dreadful. We both know how he hates leaving London, let alone England!”

I should say at this point that it always warmed me probably rather more than it really should have done as to how annoyed the lounge-lizard was whenever Holmes insisted on bringing me into any case. Judging from the faint beginnings of the smile on his face he knew that full well. 

“Besides”, he said, “he knows that I will not undertake cases without you. If he has a problem with that I am quite prepared to tell him where to shove it. Or to demonstrate if necessary!”

I smiled at that.

“I would be delighted to go”, he said. “A change would do me good.”

I had no idea when he said those words as just how our relationship would indeed be changed by our own 'Grand Tour'. For good.....

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End file.
